


Subjugated Penitence

by morierblackleaf



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-01-13 22:26:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1242835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morierblackleaf/pseuds/morierblackleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond's closest friends try to comfort him after his loss of Celebrian to Valinor, but their trying to push him out of his sorrow pushes him into acting in ways they never expected.</p><p>This story contains a dubious consensual scene that is not exactly rape. </p><p>I own none of these characters and make no money from writing about them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Too many nights he had spent alone. For another nightfall, he had forsaken the hall of fire to find solace in a book, this time reading again the history of Arda before his birth many millennia ago.Now the Noldo stared at his bed, his interest in the book forgotten when thoughts of sleep came to him; he loathed entering the forlorn expanse of linen and soft pillows. When his wife departed for Valinor, he had willed his desire to depart with her, and Elrond had devoted himself to his work, his children, and the growth of his already extensive knowledge of herbs and healing to ensure just that.

_It is difficult to bear this burden of isolation._

Still he stared, though his bright green eyes looked past the downy sheets and soft blankets, instead seeing the face of his beloved, his Celebrian, as she was before her trials with the Orcs, before she feared her family and fled from them to the Undying Lands.

His love for her had not waned, his desire to see her again in Valinor was not discouraged or declined, but his needs sometimes made him hate her, as foolish and guilty as these thoughts made him feel.

_It was not her fault. She cannot be blamed._

The attack upon her had been happenstance, her reaction should have been death, but his care and healing had kept her amongst the living, though it could not keep her with him. And so, the stray thought flickered across his mind wishing that she had not lived, that he would not see her in the Undying Lands, so that he could move on, and forget her look of haunted torment as he watched her sail away from him, from Elladan and Elrohir, from Arwen.

_It was not her doing,_ he reminded himself, plagued again by doubt. He closed the book with a definitive snap and laid it aside. I _will see her again, someday soon. Valinor will have healed her._ Even this he doubted, for the depth of Celebrian’s torment inspired no hope within him that upon his own departure to Valinor he would find her freed from her memory and capable of returning his love.

Elrond settled for sitting in a chair, propping his feet up on the ottoman. _If she had died, then I would be free._

The thought brought him immediate contrition; the idea of forsaking his love for what he imagined was only fleeting lust fomented his decision to remain celibate. It was not that Celebrian would have begrudged him physical release, or that the Lady Galadriel or Lord Celeborn would fault him for finding solace in the comfort of another. No, it was his own conscience that forbade such a tryst. As beautiful and loving as his wife was, she had never been completely acquiescent to his base desires, and for this, too, did he find fault in her, though he felt much shame for it.

_She was more worthy than I, much better, nobler._

The conversation he now held with himself he had held many times, especially at night, when he lacked the diversions to keep his thoughts at bay: the conversation was often the only barrier between his finding the next available Elf, male or female, with whom to seek release.

_You are not a randy Elfling,_ he railed, pinching tightly the bridge of his nose. _None should know this weakness._

There were few to whom he would allow this knowledge, even fewer to whom he would submit, and only two whom he desired; these select Elves did not know of his needs, he did not submit to any he might, and the two Elves knew not of his desire for them in particular.

A soft knock on his door was followed by, “Elrond, it is Erestor. Are you awake?”

Frowning, the Elven Lord rose swiftly from his chair to meet his advisor. He called out, “I am awake, Erestor. One moment.”

_What can he possibly need at this time of night?_

Erestor was by far the most capable of his cabinet, and so Elrond nearly sprinted to the door from fear that some ill had befallen Rivendell, or his sons or daughter, that the Elf would seek him at this late hour rather than handle the matter himself. The Imladrian Lord yanked open the large door to find Erestor laden with a tray of food and drink, smiling at him coyly.

“What is wrong?” he asked of the dark Elf.

Erestor seemed taken aback by Elrond’s terseness. “Nothing is wrong, my Lord.” He looked down to the heavy tray he carried. “You were not at breakfast, the noon meal, or dinner today. Glorfindel and I thought you must be famished.”

While he appreciated his advisor’s thoughtfulness, the Elven Lord was in no mood for company, and said as much dismissively. “Hannon le, Erestor, but I do not hunger.”

Not at all swayed, Erestor pushed brusquely past Elrond and into the chambers that few save the servants who cleaned were privy to, saying candidly, “That is an obvious prevarication, Elrond. You are famished.”

Erestor’s assurance caused Elrond to smile inwardly; it was not often he was contradicted, and those that dared were those he held closest in trust, for it was these opinions that served him well, rather than the agreeable, nodding advisors other leaders might prefer. _It is unfortunate that only Erestor and Glorfindel are among those willing to argue with me._ The two were also those whom he desired partially for that very reason, but he desired them at a distance, of course.

“I promise you, Erestor, I am well fed. I have eaten this day, even if it was not within your hawk’s view.” He laughed despite himself, enjoying the mothering of his close friend, as even that was often withheld from him: most assumed him able to fend for himself if he was capable of caring for Imladris, and so came to him with their problems, rather than acknowledge that he, too, had troubles. Elrond had never encouraged any thought otherwise, however.

Erestor grinned charmingly, a smile that held Elrond spellbound. _If he knew what effect his mere smile had upon me, his every whim would be entertained,_ the leader worried, scowling fiercely in turn.

“Come now, Elrond. Do not lie. I asked the kitchen staff if you had any food delivered to you this day, and they denied it. I could force you,” the beautiful, dark Elf taunted.

_I would welcome the challenge,_ Elrond thought, but was again ashamed at his wayward, lewd musing of the ebony Elf having his way with the Noldo Lord. _Celebrian, think of her._

“I do not hunger.”

Placing the tray on the table beside the chair Elrond had only just vacated, Erestor seized one of the grapes from a bowl of fruit, popping it into his mouth as he smiled again at his Lord, his grin one of knowing. The fine robe that the Elf usually wore was absent, showing off a pair of tight leggings and a loose-fitting tunic of the brightest white, a startling contrast to the sooty lashes and brows and long ebony hair of his advisor. It was even more of a disparity between said tunic and the inexplicably swarthy complexion that Erestor maintained – swarthy at least in comparison to the other fair-skinned Elves in Rivendell.

“You hunger, Elrond, though it may not be for food.”

The airy tunic strayed from its exposure of the middle of Erestor’s beige chest as the advisor leant forward to grab another grape, the gap between the unlaced front slipping to expose one tawny nipple. As starved as the Elven Lord was for sensual pleasure, he nearly groaned with lust at the unwitting display. It was then that Erestor’s words hit him: _He knows, then, of my desires._

Elrond was not yet prepared to make public his innermost need for anyone save Celebrian, much less the succulent Elf before him, who sucked the grape in his mouth lewdly before devouring it as he stared with undisguised erotic interest at his Lord. “I believe you should leave, Erestor.”

He did not mean his statement but his remembrance of Celebrian kept him stalwartly aware of his pledge to his wife. _Erestor is not worth discarding my love for you,_ he lied to her memory, to himself.

Erestor grinned sheepishly, albeit knowingly, as though he had expected such a response, and stole one last grape from the bowl, holding it between his back teeth, and biting down slowly. The Elven Lord watched with rapt attention as his advisor licked the fruit nectar from his lips, the ruby mouth chafed lasciviously by the advisor’s dark red tongue before Erestor alluded, “If you change your mind, my Lord, Glorfindel and I would be most happy to see you, no matter the time or place.”

Such an open invitation caused Elrond to start, his flesh crawled with desire even as he snorted derisively, and somewhat jealously, saying, “You and Glorfindel are lovers?”

“You could say that,” Erestor bespoke slyly. The dusky advisor sauntered past Elrond to grasp the doorknob with one long-fingered hand, ere he added, “I know you’ve a mind for penance, for your thoughts, for your wrongdoings. Do not go unpunished.” The vague, underlying meaning behind the Elf’s words made Elrond gape after Erestor as he walked from the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

He stared at the plate of food, his eyes resting on the bowl of delicate grapes. _Alone again._ Walking across the room, the Noldo reseated himself in his chair, placed his feet again on the ottoman, and laid his head back on a cushion, but the pungent smell of the fruit on the tray next to him pulled him from his repose. _What possessed Erestor to visit me?_ Lazily, he picked up a grape, holding it in his palm. Its flesh was firm, slightly sticky and cool to the touch. _He has always been forthright, but tonight he has gone too far. What audacity!_ Elrond rolled the grape between his fingers as he contemplated the impudence of his advisor. _And Glorfindel is participating in this sham, too. Mayhap it is only an ill-timed jest._ The commander and advisor knew him well; they knew his moods, his habits, and clearly, they knew what he desired though he endeavored to keep the clandestine need unmet.

In an uncharacteristic fit of petulant rage, Elrond threw the grape across his bedroom where it flew through the open doors of his balcony. It landed on the stone tile of the balcony, rolling until it hit the ornate parapet, when it rebounded to roll back into the room. He watched the globule disinterestedly. _I will not disgrace Celebrian’s memory._

The tray held more fruit and bread; moreover, placed upon it was a large bottle of miruvor and just one glass, confirming Elrond’s suspicion that Erestor knew he would be asked to leave. _Then why bother?_ It made little sense for his advisor to risk their long friendship over a night of pleasure. He grabbed the bottle, ignored the waiting glass, and uncorked the liquor. After two mighty gulps of the tangy fluid, the Elven Lord of Imladris relaxed against his chair once more, bottle in hand, to enjoy the relief of his tight muscles as they were warmed by the miruvor. _Has so much escaped my attention that I did not even notice Glorfindel and Erestor are lovers?_ That Erestor found pleasure in male’s company was no secret; that his commander did was a surprise, for the golden warrior had courted many she-Elves in his time.

With a final swig of the bottle, Elrond emptied the stout beverage, his head swimming in his discordant thoughts and the effects of drinking the liquor so quickly. _Do not go unpunished? What does he mean by this?_ Many nights he had fallen asleep just this way, having imbibed too much drink and thinking in his chair alone. The bottle fell with a clatter from his carelessly limp hand to the floor, striking the soft rug with a thud. His gaze returned to the grape lying on the tiles, reminding him of the sight of Erestor’s exposed chest, the dark nipple as luscious as the sweet grape he had so easily discarded, as he had cast aside Erestor’s proposal. _You did not even think over his offer._

Elrond sat up straight in chair, disgusted with his momentary lapse. _There is naught about which to think._ But the memory of Erestor sinking his teeth into the grape would not leave him; the sensuality of the image combined with the arousing view of the dark Elf’s chest saturated the Elven Lord with lust. That the two Elves he longed for wanted him, that they were likely copulating while he sat half-drunk and fuming with desire, angered Elrond, an ire that was aimed at Celebrian, but one that he quickly redirected towards himself. _Have you no control? You are no Elfling, Elrond._

Idly, he chose a grape from the bowl. _There is nothing sensual about fruit._ He laughed mockingly at himself, at his outlandish ponderings. Placing the globule in his mouth, he burrowed into the soft chair, merely letting the grape rest between his molars as he settled in for reverie. The slick fruit spurted its juices across his tongue when he finally bit into it, breaking the fragile skin with his teeth: a mockery of Erestor’s actions earlier. When sleep finally came over him, it was with the bittersweet flavor of grape juice and the denial of hunger still on his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

The Elven Lord rose from his chair. He stretched his stiff muscles before moving to dress. Shafts of sunlight escaped into the room from under the heavy curtains drawn tight over the windows, while from the open balcony doors the brilliance of the sun poured outright into the room, chasing away the shadows of the previous night. Without looking at it closely, he picked from his wardrobe the first robe that his hands found. He had no one to impress.

Every morning he met with Erestor, Glorfindel, and his other councilors in his study. This sunup was no different, save that Elrond felt unaccountably nervous to see his two longtime friends. Anxiety was an emotion uncommon to him, and so he balked at his apprehension of the early meeting, for the commander and his head advisor would know he was atypically disquieted, and he wished them to have no qualms about his denial of Erestor’s offer. _Canceling this meeting would only rouse their concern and doubts even more._ The barely touched tray of fruit and bread still sat on the table next to his chair, though it was stale and unappetizing in the morning light, much as his vain attempt to recapture the eroticism of Erestor’s sensual predilection for grapes seemed childish now that the morning sun brought reason with its illuminatory rays. _There may be a logical explanation for his actions. Mayhap Erestor was drunk, or not thinking clearly._

Elrond survived on tedium, on the unchanging, minute details of running his beloved Imladris, at seeing to the welfare of his fellow Elves, both as a leader and a healer. Idling did naught but invite the return of his immense loneliness and sorrow: he immersed himself in work, in his family, in drink. As he had many times, many mornings in the years since Celebrian left, the Elf Lord skipped the early meal, preferring instead to walk alone in his private garden in reflection. Usually, the morning was one of the few times he did not think of his wife, of her abuse at the hands of Orcs, and the subsequent heartache her absence had brought. Usually, the morning was a time of quiet, his mind still blissfully blank from the night’s reverie. Usually, the Elven Lord enjoyed the silence of his thoughts during his morning stroll – but this morn he thought only of Erestor and his abettor, Glorfindel. His traitorous mind replayed his encounter with Erestor, the dark sheen of the advisor’s hair, the Elf’s erotic taunting, and, of course, the sight of Erestor’s golden skin.

_I will have to tell the caretakers to prune the lilac bushes before next spring,_ he reminded himself absentmindedly as he ambled along the pathway, seeing that the plants were growing too wildly.

At one time, Celebrian cared for his garden, their garden, and would spend hours each day during the growing season tending it. It was here she taught the children songs and stories of their ancestors, and here where Elrond would usually find her at night, waiting for him to be done with his duties. Sometimes, when the effort to remember her and keep his promise to her became too much, he would come to the private garden at night, imagining she waited for him still. But it was not in their pleasance she waited, for she was across the sea in Valinor, and it was not her that he imagined now, it was Erestor, and the broad expanse of the handsome Elf’s chest. He thought of the chiseled torso, wiry and hairless, and the single russet nipple that his advisor had exposed while reaching for a grape. He thought of handling that delicate flesh, of taking it between his lips and treating it in the same lewd manner as Erestor had eaten the grape, suckling it lightly before devouring it with relish.

Overtaken by his impure ponderings, the inattentive Elven Lord had ceased walking and when he noticed, he scolded himself, _You would trade your oath to Celebrian for one night of satisfaction?_ A frisson ran through him as he realized that the answer was yes. _You will find no amatory gratification again, not with Celebrian. She is too wounded._ He feared his body’s pleasurable response to the mere memory of Erestor, of the Elf doing naught but eating a grape, and he shivered again. _I’ve not the time for this._

Although he had not been walking for long, he turned on heel and strode back to the doors leading into his bedroom. As always, upon his return he found whatever accrual of dishes and unclean clothes he had left strewn about the room to be removed, leaving no signs of the night of worried reverie he had spent in the armchair, nor the tray of food upon the table beside it. Even the empty bottle of miruvor, which he had let remain where he had dropped it on the floor, had been borne away.

“They know me well,” he muttered of the servants, his words the only sound in the empty room. He quickly crossed his bedroom, retrieving the clean towel that had been left on his bed as he walked, to reach the pitcher of fresh water left at the washbasin. Pouring the liquid into the basin, he splashed his face with the cool water, rubbing his eyes roughly to wash them clean of Erestor’s image.

Someone pounded on the door, and the Elven Lord wiped the water from his face when he heard his visitor call, “Elrond, iphant-pen, we’ve come to escort your elderly bones to your study.”

_Glorfindel._ Elrond laughed at his commander’s cheekiness, despite the uneasy leap of his stomach at recognition of who knocked. _He said ‘we,’ no doubt Erestor is with him._ He smoothed his hair as he walked across the room, tying it into the simple braids he wore most days. Opening the door was more difficult for the Noldo than he would have thought, for he feared to be propositioned again. He was not sure he could refuse them both.

Nevertheless, he swung the door ajar, greeting his two faithful friends with what he hoped was his usual aplomb, saying, “Maer aur, Glorfindel, Erestor. I hope you are both well.” He promptly chastised Glorfindel, “Iphant-pen? Elderly bones? Must I remind you of how many summers you have seen? Many more than I, I can assure you.”

Elrond relaxed, seeing his two longtime companions laugh, their banter as familiar and easy as before last night’s incident. Above all else, the Elven Lord had hoped not to endanger their friendship with his curt rejection of their unwanted but appealing offer. “Are you ready for our meeting, then?” Erestor, ever the punctual one, captured their attention with his light scolding, which was directed at Elrond, “If we do not leave now, we may never get the aged Balrog-slayer to your study in time, my Lord.”

The commander affected a stooped appearance, leaning heavily against the door casing as though too old to hold himself upright. “You’ll be the death of me yet, Erestor – the second death of me, at any rate.”

Laughing, the dusky advisor pushed the golden commander down the hallway in which Elrond’s family rooms were situated. The two shoved each other occasionally, like Elflings at play, as they teased. _I am glad they are not angered,_ he cogitated. Elrond followed a safe distance behind, watching with amusement, and renewed jealousy, at the relationship between his two closest friends. This was a side of the two Elves that only he had seen. None else was privy to their playfulness, as the residents and diplomats of Imladris would likely have difficulty trusting Erestor and Glorfindel in official capacity should they see them acting so immaturely. _They have always been thusly; how could I ever have guessed that they were lovers? They have not changed._ When the trio reached the end of the hallway, the fair commander stopped, fixing his robes into some semblance of normalcy and shooting Erestor what would have been a scathing glare, had someone else been its recipient. Erestor only grinned, retying the end of one dark, loosened braid.

As he swept from their way the tapestry hanging at the entrance to the main hall, Elrond mumbled, “You two are worse than Elladan and Elrohir.”

He stepped ahead of them, striding purposefully past deferential servants and councilors alike, though he smiled and nodded his greeting to each one. They were early in arriving for the meeting, as always, but the councilors came earlier, none wanting to be the last to arrive and earn the stern, silent reprimand of their leader. While kind and just, Elrond demanded the consummate performance of all under him.

He led the procession of Elves into his study, directing them to the council chamber where he took his seat on a couch. The last Elf slipped in, glancing at Elrond nervously. The Elf was not late, but the entry went unnoticed by the Noldo regardless, for Elrond was preoccupied in observing the change in Erestor and Glorfindel from mischievous Elflings to somber leaders.

Erestor began the meeting, as was his duty, and the room soon filled with furious arguing and trivial bickering about matters of little interest to Elrond. He knew the councilors would reach a reasonable agreement. For the most part, Rivendell ran as smoothly as the Bruinen, and both by the same power; within the fold of his robe, Elrond twisted vilyaon his finger, a reminder to him of his virtual unimportance in most daily matters. On the couch beside the one on which he reclined sat an insouciant and stately Glorfindel. The wise swordsman was as unconcerned with the current debate as was Elrond, but did not show it. He did not fidget nor allow his attention to wander. Erestor, however, was in the thick of the dispute, playing mediator and instigator, and appearing very much as though he were enjoying himself.

“Lord Elrond,” a she-Elf turned to him, pleading, “surely you can see the necessity of this concession?”

Furrowing his brow at the councilor, the Noldo pretended to be considering the issue, but he looked to Erestor, whose lips curled into a smile.

The advisor well knew that Elrond had not been paying attention, and so offered helpfully a summary under the guise of advice: “The human settlement has suffered a serious drought, but they’ve food enough to last them the winter, my Lord. While aid should be given, it is hardly necessary to empty our own stores for them. They have asked for no aid and are known to harass travelers.”

The Elves in the room waited for his judgment. Imladris was a haven to races of all kinds, but for the humans his people seemed to hold a callous attitude. This was the task he hated most, making the assessment that he felt should be obvious to all, the moral decision. “We will send them whatever they need. The stores of Imladris will not suffer by supplementing the humans through the winter months.” The she-Elf sat back, satisfied, while several of the other councilors frowned. “Offering our aid in their time of need may be the balm that soothes the irritated relations between their settlement and Imladris.”

No further argument was given, and the topic was changed. Stifling a sigh of relief, Elrond sat back against the couch, only to see that Erestor stared at him with his dark eyes, his prurient gaze brimming with shameless lechery. He startled at the blatant need, surprised and confused as to how he had elicited such a response from the advisor, but Erestor switched his gaze to the Elf speaking.

_Sweet Eru,_ he thought, worried at the longing to have the advisor look upon him again with the same rapacious, demanding desire. Unable to stop himself, Elrond squirmed with the awakening of the hunger he had denied too many times before, hoping that no one noted his discomfort.

The meeting lasted overly long, the councilors seemed unwilling to cease their arguing. Each Elf seemed determined to have their say on each trifling issue, whether it concerned the interests they represented in the Imladrian population or not. Erestor did not look Elrond’s way again, nor did any ask for his advice or opinion. When the bells rang for the noon meal, signifying that any unresolved problems would be discussed in the next morning’s meeting, Erestor dismissed the councilors and Elrond, Glorfindel, and Erestor were soon alone in the room.

Elrond rose from his couch, determined to leave immediately. He was not prepared to deny any advances, for a lust smoldered within him that could easily be escalated with the slightest ember of interest by either Elf. “I believe I will dine in my chambers,” he averred. Glorfindel stood up, also.

“Why do we not join you?” Moving before him, Erestor left little space between their bodies, so Elrond retreated backwards until he bumped into the commander, who was now behind him. “We can sate our hunger together,” the advisor whispered, stepping forward once more.

Elrond was nearly sandwiched between his companions; he could smell the soap from Glorfindel’s hair, feel the hard chest behind him; moreover, he could see the ravenous, wicked lust in Erestor’s sable eyes. It was enough of a spark to ignite the Elven Lord’s carnal appetite.

He shivered, his body responding to the nearness of the two Elves whom he had desired from afar for so long, but still he resisted. Gathering himself, he drew in a deep, fortifying breath, trying to regain his composure and to think of Celebrian, anything. “Erestor –” he tried to protest; instead of a commanding, forceful tone for his denial, Elrond’s voice was needy, desperate, and an invitation to the dark Elf before him.

Glorfindel placed his hands on the Noldo’s hips, drawing Elrond’s body to recline against his sturdy torso. His long hair was pushed to the side and the hot breath of his commander hit the back of his neck, while Erestor reached up, his fingertips sliding across Elrond’s lips.

The Elven Lord closed his eyes, the last of his resolve slipping from him when Erestor removed his fingertips, pressing his cool cheek to the Noldo’s flushed one, and whispering in his ear, “Tell me of what you hunger and I will gladly give it to you.”

Recalling the Elf’s words from the previous night, Elrond knew just for what he hungered. _I am sorry Celebrian, that I could not keep my oath to you._ He knew what he deserved for the upcoming transgression, for his failure. In resignation, he sighed, “Punishment.”

Although he could not see it, with Erestor’s cheek still pressed to his, he knew Erestor smiled.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Elrond stood there, barely breathing, with Glorfindel’s hard chest pressing against him from behind and the silken, jet-black hair of Erestor brushing along his face.

“I assure you that you will have your punishment,” the advisor promised, his words followed closely by the concomitant slow movement of the golden commander’s hands down Elrond’s hips and the sable advisor’s hands traveling up the Imladrian Lord’s chest.

Elrond had no need for leisure: now that his mind was made, the Noldo abandoned himself to the sensual pleasure that the two Elves offered. Grinding his hips backward into the commander’s groin, Elrond slipped his arms around Erestor’s torso, his desire to free the advisor’s amber skin and taste the flesh that the advisor had taunted him with last night overwhelming the half-Elf. He could nearly smell the two Elves’ desire, his own need, and it merely heightened his lust.

But Erestor seized Elrond’s forearms, stepping back and twisting the Lord’s limbs out to his side. At first, the healer merely accepted this change as a part of the game that Erestor seemed intent to play, but Glorfindel’s hands had begun to stroke Elrond’s stomach, making the Imladrian Lord want to touch the dark-haired Elf in front of him since he could not touch the one behind him. However, the scholarly Elf was strong; his grip did not give against Elrond’s struggling, and annoyed, Elrond ordered, “Release me, Erestor.”

“You will find release,” the advisor told Elrond with a snicker of delight, and then twisted the Noldo’s arms behind him, giving them to Glorfindel to hold. “But you are not in charge, Elrond. Those being punished do not determine their punishment,” Erestor told him, glancing briefly towards the opened door to the study.

Elrond followed the sable Elf’s gaze, hearing the soft sounds of Elves milling about in the hallways as they walked to their rooms or the dining hall for the noon meal. _Someone will walk by,_ the Imladrian Lord thought.

He voiced this worry aloud, jerking his wrists against Glorfindel’s tight hold as he warned them in a fervid whisper, “The door is open. This is hardly appropriate behavior for three Elven Lords, especially in broad daylight, in a place where any could enter seeking my council!”

“Do not worry, Elrond. Your punishment will not be too severe,” Glorfindel whispered into his ear. Turning his head to stare into the commander’s face the best he could, Elrond could see that the deep, light blue eyes of the commander were afire with lust. “Erestor will not keep you long this time.”

At the mention of further such episodes, when the first had not even occurred, the Elf Lord felt his desire continue to wane. He could imagine forsaking his pledge to Celebrian in the heat of passion, while barraged by the two Elves afore and behind him, but _planning_ such an escapade went against his better judgment. “Release me, Glorfindel,” he ordered again, this time with more force in both his words and in his attempt to pull free his arms from the commander’s grasp. “I have changed my mind.”

Erestor, who had taken to untying the clasps of Elrond’s robes, smiled coyly at his Lord as he pushed apart the fabric. In the height of summer, the Elf Lord did not often wear an undershirt beneath his robes, for the rooms in Imladris caused him to swelter under the heavy fabric – such a response to the weather was one of a few effects with which his non-Elven heritage hindered him.

“You hunger,” Erestor told his Lord, stepping forward until there was no room between their bodies once more. The dark Elf slipped one leg between Elrond’s, forcing the Elf Lord to spread his legs to maintain his balance where he stood. “Stop denying this, Elrond. We are not blind. We know you better than any, and we know what you desire.”

Lifting the leg he had placed between Elrond’s thighs, Erestor rubbed the top of his thigh against the flexure between the Elf Lord’s legs, teasing the hardened arousal straining against the taut fabric there. Elrond moaned halfheartedly, “Then let us move to my quarters, my friends.”

Not bothering to respond, Glorfindel shifted his hold of the Elf Lord’s wrists, pulling them further up his back so that Elrond was forced to lean forward to avoid the pain that having his arms pulled caused. This action also caused his rear to be pushed back – through the cloth of his breeches and those of the commander behind him, he could feel Glorfindel’s erection pushing against him, and he groaned loudly, so starved for attentions such as these that he nearly forgot about the open door and the potential of being caught. He was certain his friends would not harm him, as both had taken oaths proclaiming as such and their friendship was millennia old, and so the half-Elf surrendered to the sensations without fear of true injury, despite their annoying manners.

With an abrupt jerk of his bound hands backwards, Elrond felt the commander’s groin as Glorfindel threw his hips forward, bumping the Elf Lord’s rear with his blatant arousal. When Glorfindel repeated the action, Erestor chuckled softly again, and lifting his thigh higher, rubbed it between Elrond’s spread legs and against the half-Elf’s growing shaft until Elrond could only lay his head forwards against Erestor’s shoulder, the sensations too much for him. His knees became weak, and had it not been for Glorfindel’s steadying presence from behind, holding him upright by his wrists, Elrond was sure he would have fallen.

“I wish to do this here, my Lord,” the dark advisor told him, finally addressing the Elf Lord’s question. Removing his thigh from between Elrond’s legs, Erestor tilted Elrond’s head back, exposing the length of his throat. “Why do you hide your need, Elrond? Why do you not come to your friends when you ache for this?”

_Celebrian,_ he thought to say, but the very memory of her captured his attention, and once more, his desire flagged until his coherency returned and he ordered with as much fierceness as he could muster, “Release me, or I will call for the –”

His words were cut short when Glorfindel took the tip of one of Elrond's ears in his mouth, suckling the delicate point while Erestor, following the curve of Elrond’s muscled torso with his long, apt hands, claimed the Elf Lord’s mouth, pressing his own lips hard against Elrond’s, and thereby quieting the half-Elf’s threat. Erestor pushed his tongue inside Elrond’s mouth, his fingers finding the tautened buds of flesh on the leader’s chest, flicking his thumb across each one in turn. Whatever Elrond had tried to say became a whimper of pleasure as Glorfindel ceased suckling his ear, blowing his hot breath across the wetted tip instead.

_Celebrian,_ he thought again, wishing to tell them of why he could not do this. With his eyes watching the open door, Elrond gasped for air when the advisor’s head dipped down, leaving Elrond’s mouth to lave his dark red tongue down Elrond’s neck and to his chest. A brief grind of Glorfindel’s hips forward had the half-Elf pressing back against the commander’s stout arousal: he could remember the feeling of being taken by another male, though it had last occurred many years ago, and at the moment, Elrond wanted more than memories, he wanted Glorfindel inside him.

Holding a light brown nipple between his lips, Erestor licked Elrond’s flesh, causing the bud to tighten. “You will call for what, Elrond?” the dark Elf asked him, teasing Elrond as he teased his flesh, brushing his lips over Elrond’s nipple again.

“He will be calling your name, Erestor, if you would not move so slowly,” Glorfindel chuckled. In response, Erestor began the same act on the other, neglected nipple, taking the bud between his teeth and closing them softly around it – Elrond felt the pleasure and sting of this, and it sparked within him the need for that sweet and simple pain to increase.

As he was still forced into leaning forward, Elrond could see clearly the spectacle of the advisor as he knelt to the ground, unlacing the Elf Lord’s breeches, smoothing the fabric down slightly to uncover just the top of Elrond’s navel. When Erestor looked up to him, his bright eyes shining through his dark, long lashes, the Elf Lord promptly forgot about the open door, the possibility of being caught, and his beloved wife in Valinor. Of these, however, Celebrian was the hardest to ignore when Erestor began to lick the exposed flesh of his lower stomach, for the unbidden thought came to him, _Celebrian would never do such a thing_. _She would not stoop to such a low position to please me._ Erestor, however, would – and so he pushed all thoughts of her from his mind, willing the guilt and pain eating at his desire to go away, for he wanted what his friends gave him.

He needed this punishment.

“What are you thinking, Elrond?” the advisor asked suddenly, his dark eyes worried at Elrond’s pained expression.

_If you tell him,_ the Elven Lord told himself, _they will not continue. If you tell them you think of Celebrian, this will stop._

Elrond did not wish for Erestor to stop. He longed for the hardness of the commander pressing against him from behind to remain, to increase. “I am thinking that I do not mind missing the noon meal,” he lied smoothly, twisting slightly against Glorfindel when the commander began to suckle the tip of his ear again.

Smiling, the dark and beautiful Elf spared a quick bite of the half-Elf’s nipple, trailing his tongue further down the defined line of muscle separating the halves of Elrond’s chest. “You may not mind missing lunch, my Lord, but I am famished,” Erestor teased him with a murmur, before pressing his crimson, luscious mouth to Elrond’s stomach.

The kiss was chaste, the brush of the advisor’s mouth against his navel brief, but the Imladrian Lord moaned. Pleased at his Lord’s reaction, Erestor stuck his burgundy tongue out between the two fine, plush lips of his dark mouth, keeping his eyes locked to Elrond’s as he opened the half-Elf’s leggings slowly, licking downwards as he exposed more of Elrond’s flesh, until eventually the top of his erection was exposed, its length hidden behind the lacings of his breeches. Smiling up at his Lord, Erestor slowly removed the stiff length. At the sensation of another’s hand touching him where even he had not touched since Celebrian had sailed, at least not with the intent of pleasure, Elrond nearly wept, so fine did it feel.

“Elrond,” the advisor chastised, inspecting the Elven Lord’s elongated and flushed member as he removed it from the impediment of Elrond’s breeches. “You appear as if you are starving!” Erestor looked up again, sharing an amused glance with Glorfindel.

Not understanding the advisor’s words at first, Elrond thought he hardly appeared to be starving. “I am well fed,” he argued, about to say more, but the import of the advisor’s chuckle and commander’s mild laughter evinced of what they meant. _He doesn’t speak of food._

“Do not worry, Elrond,” the commander told him knowingly, bending the half-Elf’s head to the side by pushing against it with his forehead, and latching onto the soft skin of his throat. Glorfindel lapped at Elrond’s neck before biting the half-Elf’s flesh, just under his ear, as he added with a flagrant bump of his hips into Elrond’s behind again, “When Erestor has had his fill, you will have yours.” With this, Erestor took Elrond’s arousal in his mouth, devouring the half-Elf’s member with practiced and sensual abandon.

Even should Elrond not have desired to watch the spectacle of Erestor sucking his hardened member between his florid lips, Elrond could not straighten to avoid seeing such a scene, for Glorfindel still held his arms tightly upwards, forcing his head downwards and his gaze to stay upon the dark-haired Elf . Erestor sucked him as if he derived some nourishment from this act, as if by this lewd and pleasurable performance he would truly find sustenance. Voraciously did Erestor move his tongue over Elrond’s length, sliding his hands along the half-Elf’s thighs as he took the whole of Elrond’s member within his mouth, his lips touching Elrond’ navel as he swallowed the tip of Elrond’s shaft in his throat, massaging the weeping end even as his tongue swept over the sides.

Rocking his hips forward and thrusting his clothed erection against Elrond’s spread rear, Glorfindel released his hold of Elrond’s wrists but caught the Elven Lord around his torso, splaying his hands out across the half-Elf’s heaving chest. Elrond gave a guttural cry of pleasure, for Glorfindel pounded his rear and forced his own hips forward, thereby pushing his eager member further into Erestor’s throat. The advisor did not seem to mind this at all, and moaned his own encouragement, the gentle vibrations causing the Elven Lord’s knees to buckle – Glorfindel held him up.

His hands now released, Elrond moved them to thread his fingers through the dark hair before him, pushing it back from Erestor’s face so that he could see the succulent mouth once again, and what that succulent mouth was currently doing to him. Knotting his hands in the hair at the back of the advisor’s head, Elrond gently pushed Erestor forward in tandem with Glorfindel’s thrust, such that he had more control over the pace the advisor and commander were setting. He was on the edge, his body working of its own accord as he began to shove Erestor’s head into his groin unknowingly, even as he ground himself backwards against Glorfindel, wishing that the commander were inside him and not merely rubbing against him.

“Someone is coming,” Glorfindel warned them, releasing Elrond altogether, who floundered to remain standing at the sudden loss of support. Erestor moaned his disappointment, eliciting a final moan from Elrond, as well, as the pleasure of the advisor’s mouth was taken from him in an instant. Standing fluidly, the advisor grabbed the edges of his Lord’s robes, pulling them together as he brutally pressed his mouth against Elrond’s, covering the wanting and lust-confused Elven Lord with both his own robe and the advisor’s body. Elrond could taste himself on the advisor’s lips.

“Sit, Elrond,” Glorfindel ordered, hauling the Elven Lord by his arm and away from Erestor to the couch where he had sat earlier, and sitting beside Elrond even as the sound of the soft, barely perceptible footsteps of an Elf echoed through the hallway.

_What am I doing?_ he asked himself, making certain that his arousal was well covered by his robes, and trying desperately to clear his head.

The same she-Elf with whom Elrond had agreed earlier concerning the human settlement appeared at the door, but her attention was for the papers she carried and not the three Elves who were quickly adjusting themselves nearby. When she raised her head, she did not seem at all surprised at the disgruntled and flushed males sitting on the couches, but explained with a slightly embarrassed smile for Erestor, “I believe I have lost the report you have given me, my Lord Erestor.”

“I will find another copy for you, Amiel,” Erestor offered, his voice sounding hoarse from the abuse his throat had taken willingly. “I believe I have a duplicate in my study. Come with me,” he told her, an offer to which the she-Elf nodded, following the advisor out of the council room after giving a brief bow to the commander and Lord of Imladris.

For a moment, Elrond merely tried to breathe, for the whole time the she-Elf had been in the council room he had held his breath, certain that they had been caught and his reputation ruined. Such fear had not ruined his desire, Elrond discovered, as he thought it might; instead, the Elven Lord found his already straining flesh to be even more deprived, and the moment Erestor and the other advisor had left the room, Elrond leant forward in pleasurable pain, the ache between his thighs too much for him.

A snicker to his side brought the Elven Lord from his painful reverie on the problem of his throbbing flesh, and he scowled at Glorfindel out of habit. Glorfindel asked, “Let us continue, Elrond. Erestor’s lunch may have been cut short, but you and I have yet to be sated.”

Confused, Elrond protested, “Continue? What of Erestor?” he asked the golden commander, feeling suddenly ashamed at seeing the proud and competent warrior’s gloating face, as it had been hidden from him during Erestor’s performance.

_I should not have let this happen; I should stop this now._

Glorfindel rose from the couch, moving to sit closer to Elrond, where he placed a hand on the Elven Lord’s thigh. “What of him?”

“You are lovers. Would he not be upset that we have left him out of …” the half-Elf tried to explain, but soon found his explanation cut off when Glorfindel placed his hand boldly above Elrond’s aching member, not moving his limb but leaving it to send lacerating, almost painful pleasure through Elrond’s body by its mere pressure on his groin. Having denied himself release for so long, the Elf Lord could hardly contain himself.

Laughing sagely, Glorfindel told his Lord, the Elf he had vowed to protect with his renewed life, “Erestor is a teacher in all things, Elrond.” When the half-Elf only stared back with prurient confusion, the golden commander snickered again, increasing his pressure on Elrond’s needy flesh as if by this he could explain. “I have been unacquainted with the pleasures between two males, my friend, and Erestor has offered to teach me.”

Elrond had enjoyed his share of meaningless sex – before Celebrian, that is. He had bedded both males and females. But to hear the famed Balrog-slayer saying that he required instruction from Erestor, when Glorfindel had likely bedded only a few less she-Elves than he had seen summers since his second life began, made Elrond wonder what knowledge that Erestor intended to impart upon Glorfindel, and what deviant acts they had been performing together. Imagining the two in the throes of some untamed and intimate act, acts that the Imladrian Lord could not fathom of other than the rumors and stories of perversions he had heard as a young warrior, made Elrond nearly lose himself at the mere thought.

“He would not be angry that we have left without him?”

The commander’s blue eyes seemed to laugh, though Glorfindel himself replied seriously, “Do not confuse lust with love, Elrond. Erestor is my friend, as are you, and I would not change this. But do not deny that you desire these things – that you desire to know what Erestor could teach you, what pleasure you could find with us.”

“Teacher? What things could he possibly have to teach you, Glorfindel?” the half-Elf asked, trying to sound disbelieving but only sounding curious, and hungry.

“Let me show you what he has taught me, my Lord,” Glorfindel told him, cupping the flesh of Elrond’s erection through the cloth of his robes as he leant forward, capturing the half-Elf’s mouth in a bruising kiss, one that Elrond allowed but did not return, so surprised was he by this. “But let us go to your quarters,” the Balrog-slayer told Elrond with a knowing smile, his face still close to Elrond's such that the Elven leader could see into the icy blue depths of the fair warrior's eyes, and the cold lust within. “Unlike Erestor, I mind being caught with my trousers down, and besides, I would take my time with you, Elrond. Erestor will find us when he has aided Amiel.”

Elrond did not need to contemplate the idea of Glorfindel taking his time with him, for so great was his need that the half-Elf would have allowed the commander to take him where he sat. He could only nod dumbly, following Glorfindel from the council room and down the hall, no thoughts in his head save for his appreciation of the slight swing in Glorfindel’s gait, the difficulty in walking when his arousal crippled him with desire, and the thoughts of his pressing need to have Glorfindel’s need pressing into him. 


	4. Chapter 4

He had no sooner shut the door than he was shoved forward, his forehead hitting the wooden portal with a painful thud as Glorfindel pressed him hard against it, and himself even harder against Elrond. _That will cause a bruise,_ he thought without truly caring.

“Can you feel me, Elrond?” Emphasizing his question by pressing his groin against the Imladrian Lord’s backside, Glorfindel laid his chin on Elrond’s shoulder, licking the lobe of the Elven Lord’s ear lewdly as he queried, “How long has it been since you have felt someone entering you? How long have you gone without?”

The commander’s hands seemed to be everywhere, moving over Elrond’s abdomen and along his sides, rubbing him through the cloth of his thick robe while he laved the Elf Lord’s ear, moving his tongue quickly over the long arc to the delicate point, and then back down to the lobe again. The sensual, slow manner in which Glorfindel’s tongue moved reminded Elrond of how Erestor’s tongue had moved around his shaft, and he grunted with barely restrained desire at the mere thought.

“Too long,” he finally managed, tilting his head into the commander’s ministrations.

“Then we shall remedy that, healer,” the golden Elf told him, removing his forceful weight against Elrond. Seizing the cloth at Elrond’s shoulders, the commander jerked the half-Elf’s robe down his arms, pulling it free of the Imladrian Lord’s body and letting it pool around Elrond’s feet. Glorfindel rubbed his hands up from his Lord’s waist, up the muscled but lean back, and then around Elrond’s ribs to settle across the half-Elf’s chest. Flicking a finger over each of the half-Elf’s nipples, the commander nipped at Elrond’s shoulder, nibbling the skin there as the Imladrian Lord moaned his approval.

“For all your years as a healer,” the commander complimented, “you haven’t lost the body of a warrior.”

Glorfindel’s hands were on the move again, and they smoothed across Elrond’s flat stomach, fondling the tight muscles there. A quick inhale from Elrond as the commander’s hands began to travel lower, over the cloth at his waist and down the front of his thighs, caused Glorfindel to snicker.

“Patience, Elrond,” he teased good-naturedly, patting the taut cloth barely covering the half-Elf’s erection. His leggings, still partially unfastened from earlier, the commander removed next, tugging them forcefully down Elrond’s thighs, and then down to his ankles, where the Imladrian Lord promptly stepped out of them, leaving them with his robe on the floor.

He tried to turn around, for his desire to expose the pale skin of the stout and strong Glorfindel, to taste this flesh, overwhelmed him: once more, however, he was denied. The commander, much stronger than Elrond, merely pressed the half-Elf’s back with his forearm, securing Elrond’s chest against the door with a soft thud. “Glorfindel…” he began, but the commander cut off any objection as he reached around the half-Elf’s waist to grab Elrond’s arousal firmly in hand.

“Patience, Elrond,” the commander said again, stroking the half-Elf’s solid shaft slowly, before he released it. “I promise you: you will have your pleasure, but in due time.”

Fully clothed, Glorfindel knelt on the ground behind Elrond, sliding his hands along the half-Elf’s legs, massaging upwards from calf to thigh. With his head resting on the thick wooden door, Elrond thought, _If any are in the hall, they will surely hear me._

His moans, growing louder as the commander placed a kiss behind each of his knees, reverberated against the portal, but he could not stop himself. The commander’s mouth moved upwards, licking and kissing the half-Elf’s thighs, nipping them lightly as he teased his Lord’s flesh. Crossing his arms, Elrond placed his forehead against them on the door to keep himself from getting splinters, as his head seemed to rub against the wooden portal of its own accord. Glorfindel’s hands were suddenly between Elrond’s thighs, and spreading them slightly, incited Elrond to broaden his stance to accommodate whatever the commander intended.

Glorfindel began at the underside of one shapely globe of flesh of Elrond’s rear, the skin of which rose in tiny goose bumps from the contrast of the commander’s hot breath to the quickly cooling path of slicked moisture where the golden Elf’s tongue loitered. Had he been aware of anything but Glorfindel’s tongue, Elrond would have marveled at the abandonment with which he had given himself to the pleasure he had so long denied – instead, the half-Elf only began to twitch his hips forward, eager for any contact for his arousal. The first flick of the commander’s tongue across his body’s opening had the Imladrian Lord simpering unabashedly. Moving his tongue, circling it around the sensitive ring of muscle that guarded Elrond’s entrance, Glorfindel snaked his hand between the Elf Lord’s thighs, lifting the half-Elf’s sacs, heavy with desire, away from Elrond’s body. Glorfindel began to lick his way from his Lord’s aperture to the sensitive flesh underneath Elrond’s arousal, nuzzling his mouth and face between Elrond’s spread rear without shame as he pleased the half-Elf, who let loose a soft squall.

_Hold,_ he told himself, willing his pleasure not to crest. _Not yet._ There was much else he wished to experience from the commander, and as if knowing this, Glorfindel abruptly stood.

“Can I have you, Elrond?”

The question was unnecessary: the answer was manifest in Elrond’s writhing body, pressed against the door by his own volition now as a means of holding himself up from the floor. But the commander waited for his Lord’s permission, and the half-Elf, not able to disagree, grunted, nodding his head against his crossed arms, hoping that Glorfindel would see his concurrence.

The commander was quiet, and though Elrond could hear the sound of the golden Elf uncorking something, he did not turn to see it. “I have been keeping this in my leggings,” the commander said, his tone lighthearted but secretive, “to keep it warm for you.”

_Then there was never a doubt in either Erestor or Glorfindel’s mind that I would submit,_ he thought, not caring that they were right at the moment, for his two closest friends truly did know him better than he knew himself, it seemed. An oiled finger slid between his spread globes, slicking him in a single slow motion before it was removed: with more oil on his finger, the commander teased the half-Elf’s entrance, his fingertip caressing Elrond’s tense opening, circling it as his tongue had only moments before.

The slippery finger slid inside him, stilling as the half-Elf’s body began to tighten around it: it was not pain that caused Elrond’s opening to spasm around the intrusion, but the desire for more. Glorfindel’s digit began to move, sliding in and out of Elrond’s body as the half-Elf moaned, before the commander removed it. He felt another fingertip at his entrance, teasing the clenching muscles before it plunged within, the sting of having his body stretched insignificant to the pleasure it created within him.

“Glorfindel,” the Imladrian Lord muttered, his voice muffled against his forearm, "I cannot take it any longer.”

The commander merely laughed, bent his encased fingers inside the half-Elf, and then laughed again as Elrond cried aloud when the commander’s fingers found the rise of nerves within him. “I believe you can take it, Elrond,” the commander told him, massaging the swell with his fingertips as he kissed along the half-Elf’s spine.

As soon as the Imladrian Lord had grown used to the feeling of two fingers within him, Glorfindel added another oiled digit, distending Elrond’s yielding opening with gentle motions up and down, and his fingers ever moving, rotating to stretch the healer’s body in preparation. This alone was enough to make Elrond see double, and he pitched his hips downward, seeking to increase the pleasurable invasion.

“Tell me when you are ready, Elrond. I would –”

“I am ready,” he interrupted.

Again, the commander chuckled in amusement at his friend’s wantonness, but he withdrew his fingers. The phial of oil was uncorked again, and though he could not see it, Elrond groaned at the thought of Glorfindel slicking his shaft with the oil. He wanted to see the commander’s arousal: he _needed_ to see it, but instead, he felt it, for the golden Elf was pressing against his aperture.

“Relax,” the commander instructed, all teasing humor gone from his voice as he told his Lord, “it has been long since you have experienced such pleasure, and I wish to cause you no pain. Say stop, and I will cease, Elrond.”

“Please, Glorfindel. Now,” the half-Elf pled, trying to push himself upon the hard arousal at his opening.

Glorfindel held Elrond’s hips still with one hand, and then, in a swift motion, impaled the half-Elf completely upon his shaft. The painful entry nearly caused Elrond to scream, but Erestor had taught Glorfindel well, for the thrust had massaged against the rise within the Elf Lord, and his scream of pain became an unhindered yelp of pleasure. He twisted his hips, wishing to repeat the sensation: Glorfindel held him still, keeping him from hurting himself as he whispered, “Wait, Elrond.”

Indeed, the commander shifted forwards and upwards, his thighs bumping against Elrond’s as he moved unhurriedly, licentiously, his member barely stirring within the half-Elf. Even this small movement made Elrond’s body weak. “I do not think I can stand,” Elrond admitted, trying to hold onto anything to keep his buckling knees from giving way under him.

Without warning, the commander hauled Elrond to him and away from his standing recline against the door, slipping an arm under each of Elrond’s thighs, his back against Glorfindel’s chest, and his legs spread, the golden Elf’s erection still fully within him, as he carried Elrond to the bed. Elrond grabbed the thick forearms of the commander to balance himself, and though the distance was short, the position he was in during the trip to his bed made the half-Elf feel vulnerable to be both handled so easily, and for his body to be spread such. Glorfindel threw Elrond onto the bed, following behind him, their bodies still joined. The moment that the half-Elf hit the quilt laying atop the broad down mattress, he sunk into it: Glorfindel fell atop him, pressing the Elf Lord further into the bedding, and jolting his engorged shaft within the half-Elf.

Quickly, the commander had Elrond by his hips, lifting him by the waist until the Elven Lord drew his knees up instinctively to support himself. With his head against the mattress and his rear in the air, on his knees, and filled by Glorfindel, Elrond pushed himself backwards, giving a soft moan as his shaft swept against the quilt under him.

“Morgoth’s balls, Elrond,” the commander swore, running his hands up Elrond’s back as he bumped his own hips forward and his erection further into the half-Elf. Unwilling to allow the commander to retain this slow pace, Elrond hurled himself into the commander behind him, holding himself up with one arm as he struggled to reach his own arousal with the other.

However, the Balrog-slayer found Elrond’s shaft instead, and taking it in his fist, pumped the solid flesh even as he pumped into Elrond. When he could not bear the illicit actions of the commander, when the rub of his shaft’s head against the quilt as it slid through Glorfindel’s fist stole his thinking, and when the regular drives of Glorfindel’s shaft within him incited the familiar build of pleasure that would soon render him senseless, the golden Elf stopped, removing himself from the half-Elf’s opening. Mewling in discontent, Elrond tried to complain: he was summarily flipped onto his back. A golden haired Elf loomed over him, tossing one of Elrond’s legs to the side to make room for him to kneel between them.

“I told you I would take my time with you, Elrond,” the commander said tritely, smiling as he leant over, skimming his mouth over the Imladrian leader’s chest, down his navel, and to Elrond’s straining member. After flashing Elrond a smile, Glorfindel soon had taken the head of the half-Elf’s shaft within his mouth.

“Soldiering on without me, Glorfindel?” came a droll voice from the doorway, and Elrond, too caught up in the pleasure of the commander’s eager mouth to care much who was there, recognized the voice nonetheless.

The idea of Erestor standing in the doorway, watching Glorfindel as he suckled Elrond’s shaft, caused the Elven Lord to tremble with excitement, and his peak nearly overtook him. Had it not been for Glorfindel’s awareness of Elrond’s imminent orgasm and quick hands, one of which roughly squeezed the base of the Imladrian leader’s member to stave off his release, Elrond would have lost himself just then.

“I am,” the commander replied to Erestor when his mouth was free, his hand tightening when Elrond began to thrust against it, moaning at the halt of his orgasm. “And you have come just in the nick of time, as Elrond was about to come himself.” The flaxen-haired commander chuckled at his own joke, while Elrond said nothing but continued his effort to achieve release in Glorfindel’s hand.

The bed shifted as someone else climbed onto it. _Erestor,_ Elrond thought, his mind conjuring the images of the tawny flesh of the advisor, of the dusky nipple, and of his desire to consume said flesh and nipple. He wanted this. He needed it – and he would have it. He would have both of them, as often and as wickedly as they desired, if they would but give him what he needed now. Opening his eyes, the half-Elf saw the advisor in question: Erestor, before he had crawled into bed with Glorfindel and Elrond, and divested himself of all his clothing, exposing the swarthy hide that the Imladrian Lord wished to taste.

“Ah, then I am not too late, for I am still hungered,” Erestor alluded, telling Glorfindel curtly, “so get him on his knees.”

“I just had him there,” the commander retorted with a snigger, flipping the half-Elf back to his stomach without difficulty or complaint from Elrond, “but I would have him there again, Erestor, since you are so insatiable.”

Eagerly, Elrond climbed to his knees, unsure of how Erestor would fit into the debauched spectacle of he and Glorfindel joined, for the commander breeched him immediately, groaning in tandem with Elrond as his body was once again extended to lodge the commander’s length. Erestor, it seemed to Elrond, knew exactly how he wished to fit into the escapade, for he lay on his back, kicking with his feet against the mattress until he was under Elrond as the half-Elf supported himself on his hands and knees. But instead of facing the Imladrian Lord, Erestor had placed his head beneath Elrond’s member. The advisor’s body was situated such that his hips were between the half-Elf’s hands as they kept him aloft of the bed. When he looked down to the bedspread and the dark Elf underneath him, Erestor’s shaft was before Elrond’s mouth, and his desire to taste the succulent Erestor had him taking the advisor’s shaft between his own lips before the swarthy Elf had the chance to take Elrond between his. Although not practiced, Elrond swallowed Erestor’s length voraciously, using one hand to fondle the advisor wherever he might.

The three worked in an odd pace, Glorfindel pushing Elrond forward with his steady, hard thrusts into the half-Elf’s primed body before Erestor would raise his head, swallowing the Imladrian Lord’s length within his mouth and to his throat. Elrond worked the advisor’s member without regard for anything but wishing to taste Erestor’s seed, to feel Glorfindel’s seed within him, to have his humming body well over in the depth of its pleasure, to be free of the shackles of his oath to Celebrian. He moved, unaware of how or why, or where or what, but only moving, his body knowing instinctually how to be pleased and to please. Elrond rutted, lost in rapture.

With a cry that would have rivaled any battle cry Glorfindel would have given during war, the pale Elf collapsed atop Elrond’s hips, nearly driving the half-Elf into collapsing onto Erestor in turn. Glorfindel’s seed filled him, the commander’s cry provoked him, and Elrond let go, allowing himself the relief he needed. While his body clenched and unclenched around the commander’s shaft, Elrond felt Erestor increase his tempo, bringing the half-Elf to the edge of insensibility. He moaned as his long held release spurted forth, and Erestor cried out as well, the vibrations of Elrond’s groan of pleasure sending him into orgasm next, his seed rushing into the Imladrian Lord’s mouth, which he drank greedily without thought.

At first, they stayed as they were, none quite capable of the simple movements it would take them to relieve each other of their now awkward positions, but soon lust borne fatigue had them moving. Falling where they might, the three Elven lords were a heap of twisted limbs, heaving chests, and spent desire, until they sought more comfortable positions on the expansive bed. Unable to catch his breath, and his body still trembling with the aftermath of his release, the half-Elf reveled in the quiet moment of such august pleasure. He had not felt so fine in a long, long time.

Elrond lay on the quilt face down, though his eyes were turned to the open balcony doors. “Are you well, Elrond?” came Erestor’s voice from where the dark-haired advisor lay beside him, his arm thrown across the half-Elf’s back. Elrond was not sure where Glorfindel was lying, though the soft mattress dipped close to his hip, and since Erestor was to his side, he concluded that the commander was lower down the bed.

He soon found out the veracity of his supposition, for Glorfindel mumbled against the back of Elrond’s upper thigh, “We’ve worn him out, Erestor.” Moving his way up the side of the half-Elf’s thigh, over his hip, and then to the sweat layered flesh of his lower back, Glorfindel laved the Imladrian Lord’s clammy skin with his tongue, pausing only to say,  “His is stuffed and sleepy, like one who has eaten too much fowl at the harvest festival.”

Elrond heard his advisor and trusted friend laugh lightly, his arm moving up to thread through the damp hair at the half-Elf’s neck. “He was stuffed, I agree, though more like the fowl and less like the Elves eating it.”

Turning his head away from the view of the rain outside, Elrond laid it back down to face the advisor, giving Erestor an ineffectual glare at being talked about as if he were not in the room. Moreover, the comparison to the stuffing of the pheasant that was offered at the harvest festival to what had just occurred between the half-Elf and his two most trusted companions should have made him angry.

However, he found he could not be upset when staring into the dark eyes of the advisor, the sooty lashes partially covering them as Erestor added, “I think he has had his fill for today.” Erestor’s florid lips were curled into a libidinous grin, and Elrond was shocked to find that he could no longer feel Glorfindel’s mouth as it moved over his back – not when faced with Erestor’s striking smile, which captivated the whole of his attention.

“And so have I. I feel as sleepy as Elrond looks,” the commander said with a groan, ending at Elrond’s shoulder his perusal of the half-Elf’s damp skin, “but I still have warriors to train, and cannot lie abed like you sluggards.”

He joined Erestor in his mock affront at the commander’s jest, and told Glorfindel with less cheer than he tried to instill in his barb, “Go then, iphant-pen, lest you are late. And please keep your old bones from creaking too loudly as you walk to the training grounds. These two sluggards would like to rest in peace.”

Never taking his gaze off Erestor, the Imladrian Lord watched as Glorfindel leant over him and to Erestor, capturing the smirking mouth for a brief, but thorough kiss that ended with Glorfindel licking his lips clean of Elrond’s seed – the taste of which was on Erestor’s own lips – before the commander crawled from the bed. With his head propped on his hand, and his elbow on the mattress, Erestor watched Glorfindel dress, while Elrond still watched Erestor. The image of Glorfindel kissing the advisor so casually replayed in the half-Elf’s mind, and he was shocked to find himself thinking, _I covet their relationship. I would that I could find such ease with another._ Not even his relationship with Celebrian had been so relaxed.

“Good day, then, young ones. Try not to cause too much trouble,” the commander told them, as if scolding two young Elflings, before the barely audible sound of the door shutting indicated that Elrond was now alone with his advisor. The half-Elf’s heart seemed suddenly to beat louder, and his breath was harder to come by.

Sweeping away the lank locks of his Lord’s long, chestnut hair away from Elrond’s neck, Erestor repeated his question from earlier, “Are you well, Elrond?”

“I will be, yes,” he told the advisor, enjoying the mere touch of Erestor’s hands running through his hair. He had avoided not only sexual release since Celebrian had sailed, but also comfort had he denied himself, and so Elrond closed his eyes, allowing himself for the first time in many years to accept solace from another.

Scooting his body closer to Elrond’s, and slipping one hand under where his Lord’s face lay on the quilt, Erestor pressed himself to the half-Elf and his lips to Elrond’s brow, murmuring, “Shall we lie abed all day, or would you care to visit the baths with me?”

_This is not something that friends do, lying abed all day, or visiting the baths together after finding pleasure in the other’s company,_ he thought to himself, not opening his eyes because he knew that if he saw the advisor’s teasing smile, he would not have the ability to say no. _He speaks as if we were lovers._ Elrond inhaled deeply, the smell of sex and rain and sweat, and Erestor, driven from his mind as his nose picked out the delicate scent of lavender on the quilt. _Celebrian._ It was her scent. The servants had never stopped washing the bedclothes in water tinted with the flower's perfume.

“No, Erestor,” he found himself saying, “I have work to do, but another time, I promise.”

Missing the advisor’s look of pained disappointment at the rejection, as his eyes were still tightly shut, Elrond listened with his own regret as Erestor sighed, saying, “You are right, Elrond, as always. I have many reports that require my attention this afternoon.” Sliding away from the half-Elf, Erestor sat up and snorted, “Or what’s left of this afternoon. But I will hold you to your promise.”

Because he wanted Erestor to stay, and because he knew he would tell the advisor this should he try to reply, Elrond remained quiet as he lay on his stomach and watched the red-hued shadows cast by the sunlight as it filtered through his shut eyelids, while listening to Erestor dressing. When the soft rustles of cloth had ceased, the advisor told his Lord before leaving, “When you are hungry again, Elrond, find us.”

Outside a harder rain had begun to fall: he could hear it hitting the veranda, washing away the dust from the stones of the patio. He could imagine it sluicing across the leaves and branches of the trees, sustaining them even as it bathed them clean. Outside, the air was fresh, and though it blew into the room, clearing out the smell of sex and sweat that seemed to saturate Elrond’s bedchambers, it made the Imladrian Lord feel no less permeated by the decay of his oath to Celebrian, the guilt of what he had allowed to happen, and the augmented shame that he wished for it to happen again.

The half-Elf felt incredibly tired, and suddenly very old. 


	5. Chapter 5

Unlike what he had told Erestor, the Imladrian Lord had not worked, had not attended to the duties he had needed to attend, nor did Elrond even leave his rooms after Erestor had exited. Instead, the half-Elf had found a servant, called for a tub to be brought to him so that he could bathe alone, and once clean, Elrond had fallen into reverie in his chair. Not since before the twins and Arwen had grown past needing their Naneth and Ada during the night could Elrond remember being as tired as he had been.

_Stop being foolish,_ the half-Elf told himself, straightening his robes for the seventh time as he walked to the dining hall for the evening meal. He could also not remember the last time he had been this hungry – and not for carnal pleasure, but for the foods exuding the tantalizing smells that wafted through the halls.

_You have known Erestor and Glorfindel for millennia, and even had you not, it was only one dalliance._ Saying this and accepting this did not coincide: the half-Elf flipped a long braid from his shoulder, pushing it away so that it fell down his back with the rest of his auburn tresses. _They are likely not even in attendance this evening._ He refused to think about what the commander and advisor would be doing if he did not find them in the dining hall. _You are not an Elfling, Elrond,_ he chastised, stopping at the end of the massive corridor.

Most hallways in Imladris eventuated into one of two rooms, or ran into hallways that then led to either of the most frequented rooms in the Last Homely House: the dining hall and hall of fire. The two rooms sat side by side in the center of the great home, partitioned by a wall that was merely for show. Every several feet there lay in the stone a great archway from where one could simply walk into one room from the other.

He stood at an entrance to this great room, viewing across the nearly empty hall of fire, through an archway, and into the dining hall. Only by the absence of tables and chairs on the side through which he now ambled showed that this room was reserved for dancing, music, and other revelry – both rooms were decorated similarly, and it was to this that he paid attention as he walked, instead of the mill of Elves engaged in flirtation and others in more serious discussion.

Two Elf-maidens walked by him, smiling shyly at Elrond as they nodded simultaneously in deference. He smiled back at them, and then shook his head as the young she-Elves blushed and fled through an archway into the dining hall. _They cannot be more than half a millennia old!_ Feeling somewhat out of place, even in his own home, the half-Elf picked up his pace, striding through an archway and into the bustling, raucous dining hall. Little formality existed during mealtime in the Last Homely House, for Elrond had learned long ago that forcing the myriad races and nationalities to adhere to the confusing rites and ceremonies of different cultures would only cause strife. Therefore, here all were on equal standing – at least for the time it took to sate their hunger.

“Ada!”

_Elladan,_ he knew, turning to the sound of his eldest son’s surprised and welcoming cry, which had come from close by. Scanning the multitude of dark heads seated along the table, Elrond’s smile of greeting widened when he found the two identical heads for which he looked: seated side by side were the twins, both of whom twisted in their seats to see their father. Elladan and Elrohir waved to the Imladrian Lord, calling him over with their gestures to join them at the dinner table. But across from them and the dishes of venison and bread laid on the table, smirking with a knowing gleam in his eyes, sat Glorfindel.

_I would very much enjoy smacking the grin from your face, commander,_ he thought, and was amused to see that Glorfindel’s smile dimmed as if he were privy to Elrond’s thought.

However, the golden Elf queried as Elrond sat in the empty seat beside his twin sons, “You haven’t graced us with your presence at the dinner table in a long time, my Lord. Your scholarly tasks this afternoon have whetted your appetite?”

His mind fumbled with an answer that would be both witty and indecipherable to his sons: he did not wish for them to know of his activities that afternoon. Elrond found nothing satisfying either category to say, and instead chose to glare at the commander before demurring, “Not as much as your training the warriors, I am sure. Where is Erestor?” he inquired, and then fought the blush that seemed to spring from his nether regions, spreading warmly up his stomach, over his chest, and to his face at Glorfindel’s tight smile.

“Whetting his appetite with his own scholarly tasks.” Something else lay in the commander’s otherwise innocent words, a sagacity or innuendo that the half-Elf could not understand, and thinking it was merely a joke between Glorfindel and Erestor, the Elf Lord only nodded.

The twins began to dote on their Ada, chatting all the while: with one piling venison on Elrond’s plate, while the other buttered bread for him as if he could not do these things for himself. The half-Elf sighed. They, too, had worried over Elrond’s welfare since their Naneth had sailed. Although they had taken her leaving them with courage, Elladan and Elrohir had always been succored by their father’s assurances that Celebrian would be well in Valinor, and that one day they would see her again. Their father was infallible, strong, and Elrond’s loving sons were always attempting to shower their Ada with the same kindness and understanding he gave to them.

But as always, he pushed their aid away, unable to admit that he was contented by their shows of affection. “Enough, enough,” the half-Elf told them sternly, though they were not swayed by his anger – as always.

Smiling between themselves, the twins shared their own knowing look, before Elrohir told his father, speaking loudly over the clamor of clanging cutlery and the dissonance of many mouths speaking at once, “Glorfindel and Erestor have offered us extra lessons, Ada.”

Immediately, the bite of meat the half-Elf had been in the process of chewing became stuck in his throat, and he coughed slightly. _Lessons?_ he thought, remembering his own tutorial from that afternoon, and how Glorfindel had explained to Elrond that he was Erestor's pupil.

Grabbing his goblet as he choked in fury at the perverse, offensive, and unbidden thought of the stately Erestor and dashing Glorfindel teaching his twin sons the very thing they had foisted upon the Imladrian Lord earlier that afternoon, Elrond sputtered, “Pray tell, sons, of what they could teach you that I could not.”

Elrond looked to his commander: the bread the golden Elf held in hand was forgotten, and with his mouth ajar in disbelief, Glorfindel’s confusion became anger. The light brow furrowed and the blue eyes became icy as the commander realized the accusation behind Elrond’s statement. At first, with his mind still regaling him with sickening images of his trusted advisor and commander doing to his sons what they had done to him that afternoon – all under the teasing guise of lessons – Elrond returned the glare until Elladan spoke.

“You are always busy, Ada, so they have offered to teach us military strategy.”

If the twins were at all put off by their father’s odd behavior or resentful statement, they did not show it. Elrohir added, saying without offense, “Glorfindel wants to teach us from a practical standpoint, and Erestor will help, as he is proficient in historical battles.” Expounding on the advisor and commander’s aptitude in strategy to their father, who listened halfheartedly to his sons’ discussion, the twins soon began to argue between themselves as to some issue of little consequence to Elrond, as was their wont.

Elrond dared to meet the commander’s gaze again. He shifted uncomfortably in the hard seat, as pained by the hurt look that Glorfindel flashed him as he was by the ache of his well-used derriere. _Idiot. Glorfindel is not as base as this,_ he chided himself, looking down to his full plate. Even with the commander glowering at him, the Elf Lord did not find his hunger waned, and the famished half-Elf continued eating in silence, promising, _I will apologize the moment that the evening meal has ended._

After having his fill of the dinner offered before him, and ere he could lose his calm under Glorfindel’s stare, or become dismayed by his twin sons’ constant chatter, the serving had ended. Not desiring to stay for the conversation, music, and dancing in the hall of fire – when dozens of guests and kinsmen wondering why their Lord had attended dinner, when he had made it a habit not to do so, would soon accost him with well-meaning questions – the half-Elf rose from his uncomfortable chair.

He laid a hand on each dark head of his twin sons, who still bickered about some vague aspect of strategy. Smiling down at them, the half-Elf told Elladan and Elrohir, “You could not find two better instructors in the ways of tactics. Goodnight, my sons.”

He smiled at the commander. Glorfindel stood from his own chair without speaking, slipping between the end of the table at which they had been seated and the one next to it in line.

“Goodnight, Ada,” the twins said in tandem, thankfully unaware of the tension between the commander and their father.

As Elrond walked away, hoping to avoid the guests and Imladrians who would vie for his attentions, Glorfindel caught him by the elbow, walking beside him and appearing to any who might see them as if the commander were offering his advice to his Lord on an important matter. However, the golden Elf was angered, and he hissed into Elrond’s ear, “I am no lecher, Elrond, especially not for the half-grown sons of my Lord.”

Properly objurgated by the commander’s indignant anger, Elrond allowed Glorfindel to lead him from the hall of fire and the crowd within, and whispered in kind, telling the golden Elf, “I am sorry, friend. It was my son’s choice of words. I was startled, Glorfindel. I know you better than to believe such a thing.”

The commander’s painful hold of Elrond’s arm lessened until his hand fell away: Glorfindel nodded slightly, still miffed, it seemed to Elrond, but no anger painting his voice as he explained, “You misunderstand my interest in Erestor, and in you, Elrond.”

“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps you could explain this to me, to ameliorate my confusion,” he told his friend apologetically, truly sorry to have annoyed Glorfindel, to have doubted him. He walked out of the lesser hallway in which they stood, through a doorway leading to an empty sitting room, and was pleased that the commander followed him.

Sitting on the settee, the commander pinched a thread on his tunic, pulling the errant string from him and flicking it onto the floor: Elrond smiled, despite their conversation. While Glorfindel would not hesitate to wade through bogs, become imbrued with Orc blood, or muck out the stables should the need arise, the commander was one of the most vain Elves Elrond had yet to meet in his many years.

“Did you not enjoy your punishment? I must say, when Erestor suggested that we include you in our games, I was rather confused, myself, as you have shown no interest in company for some time now. But Erestor was convinced you would respond to our invitation.”

_Our,_ the Elf Lord thought with contempt, noting the way in which the commander spoke of he and Erestor as a couple, and bafflingly upset by this. He stood before one of the windows, peeping between the drawn, long, and heavy drapes to see the movement of anonymous Elves enjoying the clear sky under the stars, outside in the gardens. _Punishment. They knew I would agree under the pretence of atonement, but do they have any clue as to why?_ he asked himself, glad to have the distraction of the Elves outside so that he would not need to face the commander. _They are truly masters in strategy, and I have fallen for this trap._

“Should I be sorry that I have acquiesced?”

“That is your dilemma, Elrond,” the commander huffed, and from the sounds of his movement, was reseating himself on the sofa in his exasperation. “You are many years past your majority, and willingly gave your permission to us to continue. If you choose to regret what we have done, then it will be your problem, not ours,” Glorfindel stated bluntly, adding with a harrumph of frustration, “Although I do not understand why you would regret this. We are friends, the three of us, and even were she here now, Celebrian would not begrudge you this, not after what she endured.”

The muscles in his jaw clenched at the mention of his wife. “Do not speak of Celebrian,” he whispered fiercely, trying to control his temper but failing. He lied, not bothering to remove his gaze from the Elves outside, “She has nothing to do with this.”

“My apologies,” the golden warrior responded automatically, and finally Elrond turned to face his commander, the Elf in whose trust he had placed his own life, the lives of his family, and the security of his home: the Elf to whom he could not confess the sorrow that now overwhelmed him. “What is it that confuses you, Elrond? Surely you are not unacquainted with casual sex. You were a warrior in your earlier years; surely you frequented the human settlements with your fellows for the tawdry talents of the whores there, or tempted more than one Elf maiden, or Elf warrior, for comfort before you bonded to your chaste Celebrian.”

The crude description of sexual encounters had its intended effect on Elrond, who became disgruntled immediately at the association with a past he had forsaken upon meeting his beloved. Swallowing thickly, the half-Elf forced back his anger at the careless manner in which the commander spoke of his mate. “Such trifling experiences I ended willingly upon bonding with Celebrian. They are meaningless when one is in love, Glorfindel.”

The golden Elf stared at the Elf Lord without emotion. “Do you think I have never felt love?”

Agitated at the continuous change in topics, the half-Elf finally settled himself in a chair across the way, asking, “Have you? I do not know. You have courted more she-Elves than I have herbs in the apothecary.” Glorfindel snorted, and then laughed outright, prompting Elrond to continue, “If you have ever loved, my friend, it was hidden from me.”

“Do you truly not know, Elrond?” Rising to his feet, the commander cleared the scant space between them, standing in front of where Elrond sat and saying, “In the matters of running a realm you are wise, but in the matters of love you are sorely lacking instruction.”

Ignoring the commander when he placed a comforting hand on the half-Elf’s shoulder, looking down at him with the familiar visage of friendship that had always resided in Glorfindel’s face, Elrond tried also to ignore the sensations within his belly that this innocent touch inspired. He may have been freed from his immediate needs, but the Elf Lord was not entirely free of his desire. “Do not confuse lust with love,” he told the commander, repeating what Glorfindel had told him earlier that day.

“I spoke only for you, Elrond,” the commander explained, his brow furrowing. “I cannot say what lies in your heart, or in –” Glorfindel tilted his head, and immediately stopped speaking mid-sentence without explanation. “Do you think that I would bed Erestor or you without caring enough for you or Erestor to do so? You are the two closest friends I have, Elrond.”

Before Elrond could answer, or question this odd query, the golden Elf was shaking his head and walking to the door, finishing his speech without finishing his thought, “But that is not important. At least, it does not seem important to you. Goodnight, my Lord. I will see you on the morrow for our morning meeting.” The irritation had returned to Glorfindel’s voice, though for what cause Elrond could not imagine, and once more the half-Elf had not the chance to inquire, for the golden Elf had left him in the sitting room, alone and more bewildered than he had been when first he had admitted to his confusion.

_It is not fair,_ he thought to himself, exiting the room before the inhospitable bareness of the vacant space could exacerbate the emptiness within him. _I should have left well enough alone._

Traversing the hallways by instinct, rather than by thinking of how to arrive at his rooms, the half-Elven Lord of Imladris soon found himself pushing aside the tapestry at the entrance to his family’s hallway, walking past the doors to his sons’ quarters and Arwen’s empty rooms, for she was in Lorien with her mother’s family where she felt most at home these days. He ambled past the empty room that Celebrian would use for knitting, and for telling her children stories when the weather outside had prevented her from using her gardens.

Throwing open the door to his bedrooms, and hoping that he had a bottle of miruvor left amongst his stash in the armoire, Elrond entered his room, desperate to be free of the guilt and confusion, to be free of it all, to sleep in an alcohol induced daze. However, he had no more than stepped across the threshold when he saw that Erestor sat in the only chair in the room, wearing nothing but Elrond’s own sleeping robe.


	6. Chapter 6

_What could he want now?_ the half-Elf thought, pausing mid-step for the briefest of moments when entering the room. After listening to Glorfindel’s odd speech, Elrond did not desire Erestor in his chambers. _They assail me everywhere I go._

Erestor smiled and laid his head on the cushioned chair’s back. With his legs bent at the knee, his feet resting on the ottoman, the flowing material of Elrond’s robe had spilt over the Elf’s body, exposing the advisor’s long, lean legs – in fact, Elrond’s sleeping robe, too big on the slight Erestor, exposed most of the advisor’s body, the middle of his slender but muscled chest, the tight flesh of the scholar’s abdomen, and the smooth, strong thighs. The only part not exposed was where the robe was loosely cinched at Erestor’s waist, hiding what lay in the advisor’s lap. Elrond well knew what the robe hid, and already he felt the heat of desire in his own lap conspiring against him.

In an attempt to hide his surprise to find his advisor in his chambers, the Imladrian Lord feigned an unaffected demeanor as he crossed the room to his armoire. Elrond opened the chest’s doors, his hand sliding between robes to where he usually kept his bottles to help him sleep. He turned around to face Erestor, bottle in hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company tonight, Erestor?”

The advisor tilted his head, a ghostly smile playing across his full lips, and his dusky eyebrows drawn together as he studied the half-Elf whom he called Lord. Erestor lowered his head, his features suddenly hidden from Elrond, as were his emotions, when he told Elrond stoically, “You promised me another time.”

Elrond sat on the bed facing the chair in which he usually sat, where Erestor sat now waiting without looking to the Elf Lord for an answer. _Promised him another time?_

Immediately the half-Elf thought he had promised another session of the robust games they had partaken of that afternoon, perhaps in the throes of the very passion those games had caused; however, he could not remember, and so settled for asking, “Promised you what another time, Erestor?”

The swarthy Elf stood from the chair, holding his borrowed robe at the waist so that it would not slip free of his slight form, and still without meeting the Elf Lord’s gaze, walked the short distance to where Elrond sat on the bed. “Glorfindel is a fine lover, is he not, Elrond?” Standing before the sitting half-Elf, the advisor’s lowered head now angled directly towards Elrond’s face. The teasing smile always present on Erestor’s mien was absent, only to be replaced with uncertainty. “For someone who prefers females he has taken to the ways between males very well.”

“He is, and he has,” Elrond answered, though he thought, _Erestor evades my question. He has always bested me at rhetoric, which is the very reason why he is my most trusted diplomat._ “You have taught him much. I enjoyed myself this afternoon, my friend. Is this when I made a promise to you?” Quickly, Elrond uncorked his bottle of miruvor, feeling the need to take a long draught of it at the memory of having Erestor in his mouth that afternoon, and of the taste of the advisor’s beautiful flesh. He drank heavily from his bottle until Erestor took the bottle away gently, replacing the cork before setting it on the floor.

Grabbing one of Elrond’s braids in hand, Erestor tugged it playfully and then began to untwine the plait, loosening each strand of hair slowly, without speaking, before he took another braid in hand and continued there. So simple, so intimate did the advisor’s action seem to the half-Elf that he did not deem himself capable of stopping it, although Elrond feared that Erestor would take his silence as acquiescence. When finished, the sultry advisor slipped his fingers through the hair starting at Elrond’s forehead, combing his fingers through it until he had reached the very ends of the half-Elf’s long tresses.

“You promised we would lie abed all day, Elrond, or visit the baths together – but as it is no longer day, and you have already bathed, I will settle for lying abed all night…unless you’d care for another bath?” Erestor’s teasing smile returned, and the advisor suddenly appeared much like an Elfling about to attempt to eat his weight in honeyed cakes.

_This is too much, and too fast,_ the Elf Lord worried, his usual erudition failing him.

“Perhaps another time,” he demurred as he had that afternoon. He looked down from the advisor’s keen gaze, but when doing so was faced with Erestor’s exposed chest, the same tawny nipple he had wished to devour last night was before him now. The temptation to lean his head forward, to clear the scant space between himself and Erestor, and to take that aureate bud between his lips, made Elrond’s mouth water. The half-Elf licked his lips, adding, “I am tired, friend, and wish only to sleep.”

“I’ve never known you to be one not to keep a promise, Elrond,” the advisor teased, and if he had not believed the desirable Erestor had other lovers with whom he could share his night, the half-Elf might have noticed the slight dejection tainting the advisor’s otherwise lighthearted jibe. Instead, the Elf Lord only took Erestor’s distress as disappointment that his ploy to lure Elrond back to bed was not working. “I am tired myself, my Lord, and would not mind slumbering.”

The disbelieving glower he earned from Elrond at his assurance caused Erestor’s temporary gloom to lift, his lips curling pleasingly in a faint grin. “I am capable of keeping my hands to myself, if you would allow me to share your bed.”

_Why would he desire to stay?_ Having never shared a bed with anyone but Celebrian since they were bonded, save for his children when they were babes, the half-Elf had no intention of allowing the mischievous Erestor into his bed, even if only to sleep. _I haven’t slept in this bed in…_ he pondered, trying to remember how long it had been since he had found any rest in the bed on which he sat, but then remembered it was not the problem at hand.

The dark advisor was waiting for an answer, and Elrond found it hard to deny Erestor what he asked for. “Why? Many Elves would share your bed tonight. Why do you ask me?”

Erestor leant over, picking up the bottle of liqueur from the floor, and then, opening it to drink from it himself, left Elrond’s question without answer as he corked the bottle and sat it back on the floor. Placing a hand on each of Elrond’s shoulders, the sultry advisor slid his hands down the half-Elf’s robed chest, kneeling on the floor before where Elrond sat on the bed as he did so. The advisor’s touch was soft, his hands merely gliding over the Imladrian Lord’s stomach.

“I thought you would keep your hands to yourself,” Elrond complained halfheartedly, closing his eyes when Erestor reached for the ties at the half-Elf’s waist.

“You haven’t agreed to share your bed,” the advisor argued with a sly smile, releasing the belt holding Elrond’s robe together, “so I must not keep my bargain to keep my hands to myself.”

The half-Elf groaned when the dark Elf reached for the ties of his leggings. “Why, Erestor? What game is this?”

The advisor stopped. Drawing his hands away from his Lord and sitting back on his heels so that he could face Elrond, the advisor queried softly, “Game?”

Elrond stood carefully, avoiding stepping on his advisor as he rushed to remove himself from Erestor’s attentions: the half-Elf was certain that he would capitulate to anything Erestor asked with the lithe Elf so near.

“Game,” he repeated, grabbing the bottle of miruvor from the floor as he moved to the chair where he spent most of his nights. Falling heavily into the seat, Elrond watched Erestor rise from the floor to sit on the bed to face him.

“You are lonely,” the dark Elf told Elrond, “do not deny –”

“Enough, Erestor. I do not need your assumptions, or your company. I am fine, I am comfortable, and I do not wish to be the recipient of this sickening pity."

The advisor came to sit gracefully on the ottoman before Elrond. “I do not make assumptions, my Lord,” the Elf replied stiffly, formally, “else I would not be your advisor.” Crossing his arms over his chest, the dark Elf frowned at the healer, the barely noticeable sorrow underlying his anger a sight Elrond had never seen on the advisor’s face; the ire left the dark Elf as the advisor sighed, leaving only the intense sadness in Erestor’s eyes. “I offer you no pity, Elrond. And if you are not lonely, sleeping in your chair, drunk so that you can waste another night without thinking of Celebrian, then I will accept your word, and rescind my offer of company.”

Wanting the Elf to leave so that he could retain his normalcy, remain in his rut of endless work, sleep, and loneliness, Elrond thought not to answer, but he ignored his better sense to call softly, teasingly to Erestor as the advisor stalked away, “Do you intend to walk to your rooms in nothing but that thin sleeping robe, Erestor? I am certain that everyone would appreciate the spectacle.”

Erestor blushed and gathered his clothes from where he had left them neatly folded on the foot of the bed, saying as he walked back to the door, “I do not care what they think, and if you do not mind, my Lord, I will return your robe to you on the morrow.”

He stood from his chair, upset though he tried not to be at the thought of the dark advisor’s lithe body being viewed by lascivious onlookers, and told the departing back of his advisor, “Erestor. Do not leave.” Elrond cleared his throat, wishing he had liqueur to wash down the odd taste of betrayal he felt to want the advisor near when he should only be pining for his wife. “If you wish, stay the night.”

“And now you offer me your pity, Elrond?”

The half-Elf was taken aback by the anger in his advisor’s voice: Erestor did not turn to face his Lord, and so Elrond walked to the dark Elf. Sliding his arms around Erestor’s waist, and surprised to find himself doing so, Elrond told the swarthy scholar, “I am sorry, Erestor. I offer you no pity, but nor can I stand the thought of you sharing another’s bed tonight, not when I desire you to stay in mine.”

Erestor tensed but covered Elrond’s forearms, which lay across the advisor’s lean stomach, with his own limbs: the advisor laughed, an infuriating sound to Elrond’s ears. _Is this anger only pretend? Does he do this only to have his way again?_

Taking each of the half-Elf’s hands in his, Erestor slid them down his stomach and to his navel. “And should I keep my hands to myself?” he asked, even as he led Elrond’s fingers to the knot of the cinched robe the advisor wore.

Quickly, he worked the knot free, burying his face in the long dark hair hanging between the advisor’s shoulders. “If you wish, though I make no similar oath.”

Laughing again, the victorious advisor took Elrond’s hands, leading the half-Elf by them to the wide bed, where he threw his clothes back at the foot of the down mattress. The half-Elf promised himself, his ire growing at his easy defeat, _His victory will be short-lived._ Elrond wanted the Elf, to wipe the smirk from Erestor's face, to clear his head of the thoughts that he had of the advisor, and to show Erestor that he would not be a passive participant in these games that Glorfindel and Erestor played. _I am tired of this charade._

The advisor laid back on the bed, only to attempt to rise into sitting to help the half-Elf disrobe. “No,” Elrond replied immediately, pressing Erestor’s shoulder so that the advisor remained on his back. While Erestor, and Glorfindel for that matter, had taken their turns in pleasing Elrond earlier that afternoon, showing him their talents, the half-Elf had been given no chance to show his own. “Lay back,” he commanded, and from the docile reaction to his stern tone of voice, Elrond’s thoughts grew bolder. He wanted to have his way with the Elf lying on his bed – he fully intended to be the one doling out punishment this night.

When divested of all his clothing, he sat between Erestor’s legs and spread open the silken robe, _his_ robe, to expose the advisor’s body fully to his sight. The dark Elf was beautiful. His golden skin rippled as the muscles underneath moved with Erestor’s breathing, the darker points of flesh on the scholar’s chest standing out proudly, and the soft, ebony hair trailing down the lowest portion of Erestor’s body beckoned to Elrond. Thickening quickly under the half-Elf’s appreciative gaze, Erestor’s shaft was nestled in a cloud of dark curls, the velvety flesh of his member smooth and rubicund with desire.

Beginning now at the advisor’s inner thigh, the half-Elf nipped and licked his way to Erestor’s arousal. Glistening on its head was an iridescent drop of the advisor’s essence. Elrond lapped at the delicate slit without thinking, wanting to taste again the advisor’s semen as he had that afternoon: the scholar moaned, sliding his hand through Elrond’s hair in encouragement. Again, his tongue flicked out, though this time, he ran his lissome lingua down Erestor’s arousal, over the downy sacs underneath, and back up again.

Elrond took Erestor’s shaft wholly within his mouth. Over the head of the thick member in his mouth, curling around its sides, massaging the underneath, and then again did Elrond’s tongue move until Erestor began to lift his hips from the bed in time with the Imladrian Lord’s movements. “I want you inside of me,” the advisor moaned.

He let Erestor’s erection fall from his lips, and then laid his body out atop Erestor’s, placing himself between the advisor’s legs as he covered the smaller body with his own. “We’ve no oil,” Elrond complained, gazing about the room for a substitute.

Without speaking, Erestor smiled. Digging into the pocket of his borrowed robe, Erestor revealed his forethought in the matter when he pulled free a jar of slippery salve. _He had this the whole time._ Too caught up in what was occurring, the half-Elf merely grabbed the oily substance, removing its lid before impatiently slicking his fingers with the unguent. Elrond felt the vague insinuation of misgiving enter his mind: the advisor had planned for this outcome, and the half-Elf felt duped to have given in so easily to Erestor’s devices. But again, as he slid his fingers between the crevice of the aroused and mewling advisor’s rear, the Imladrian Lord tucked these suspicions away. _There is time to think of this later,_ he decided, breeching the tight confines of the dark Elf’s body and grinning maliciously at the advisor when Erestor gasped.

“Deeper,” the scholar instructed, twisting his hips when the half-Elf did not comply.

Laughing his own victory to have Erestor’s body and pleasure at his mercy, Elrond complained, “I am not your student, Erestor,” even as he slid his slick finger deeper within Erestor’s opening. “You will have to forgo being the taskmaster tonight, my friend. I am in charge.”

Erestor could not manage to maintain the playful moue of frustration he held, not when the Imladrian Lord contorted his fingers within him. “Then teach me a lesson, Elrond. I will be your pupil tonight.”

The impish taunt struck a chord within the half-Elf that had little to do with the lighthearted meaning Erestor had intended: something sinister arose in Elrond’s mind, something that wished for the advisor to suffer. _I will keep him at the point of release and not allow him it. I will have him pleading for me before I am through with him,_ the healer told himself, planning in his mind the ways in which he could break the advisor. His distrustful mind doubted his friend. _It is their fault,_ he blamed, thinking of his broken vows to Celebrian. _I do not know what they seek to achieve from this, but they will not win._

Twisting another oiled finger into Erestor’s body, the half-Elf curled them into the advisor’s flesh viciously, brutal in his relaxation of Erestor’s soft, sensitive passage. The dark Elf yelped in shock, though he then moaned wantonly as well, his body reacting instantaneously to Elrond’s jostling motions. Elrond leant forward, his fingers ever moving within Erestor’s body, to capture one of the advisor’s vermillion nipples. _He is as sweet as he looks,_ the Imladrian Lord considered, tugging at the lust tautened bud less than gently with his teeth. _If I am the one to play taskmaster tonight, then he will learn his lesson well. Let it not be said that Elrond folds to the whims of those that seek to use him, however pleasurable their strategy._

With Erestor’s hips in his hand, he pulled the advisor to the edge of the bed, letting the dark Elf’s rear hang over the precipice so that he could enter him, which he did in a shallow thrust, forcing his way past the relaxed ring of muscle he had prepared. Unpracticed but not forgetful of what would bring the Elf beneath him pleasure, Elrond aimed his second thrust into Erestor’s body to strike against the advisor’s prostate.

“Wait.” The advisor’s hand fumbled around on the bed, searching for the oily liniment, but Elrond had no desire to wait any longer. When the advisor found the jar, he smiled indulgently at the half-Elf to say, “A bit more will suffice. We’ve no need to be hasty, Elrond.”

But Erestor was not the one in control: Elrond pushed forward again, eliciting a surprised grunt of pain from the advisor, who dropped the jar back onto the bed to grab fistfuls of bed sheets to steady himself when the Imladrian Lord yanked him further off the mattress. _How long have I wanted him, open for me, my dark beauty spread and willing?_ He moved inside of Erestor again, withdrawing to push further into the Elf when the feeling of Erestor’s clinging, too dry channel heightened his desire beyond mere lust. _How long have they planned this? How long have they known I desired them but did not act, only to act now?_

“Slow down,” the confused Erestor hissed, pushing against the chest above him as if in doing so he could stop Elrond’s frantic, painful tempo. However, even as he ordered Elrond to slow, the advisor arched his back as if attempting to maximize the contact between his body and the half-Elf’s. Erestor writhed beneath him, inhaling sharply before he asked of Elrond again, “Slower.” Belying the advisor’s plea was the dark Elf’s obvious pleasure. With each thrust, Erestor’s own rigid member bobbed against the advisor’s stomach.

This was a game he had not played, not with Celebrian, and not with any of his lovers before her. This was something new: Erestor pretended not to want him, or at least, to want Elrond to slow, to take his time when the advisor must have felt the same urgency as Elrond. He would have been sickened to think he was truly hurting the advisor, and but for the dark Elf’s lustful participation and his own mistrustful thoughts over what the Elf wanted from him, he might have noticed that Erestor’s aggrieved resistance was real.

It felt dirty; it felt wrong; to Elrond, it felt glorious.

Pressing his navel against Erestor’s groin as he collided with the advisor, Elrond provided the writhing and hard flesh of his lover with friction: Erestor moaned low in his throat and twisted his hips forward and up, his head thrown back to press against the bed as he began to pant through parted lips. “Elrond…” the advisor began but did not finish, for another aggressive thrust had Erestor crying out, his body mimicking his inner flesh as both shimmied in completion.

The searing spray of Erestor’s essence across his stomach and the dark Elf’s cry of pained pleasure sent Elrond’s pace beyond reason: he could feel the recoil of the advisor as he hammered harder into his lover’s body, and so to stop his student from evading his lesson, Elrond seized Erestor’s upper arms, holding the Elf forcefully in place as he continued his coarse, carnal impacting of his body against Erestor’s, thrusting his shaft inside the moaning advisor.

He took from Erestor, ravaging the Elf under him with the violence he felt. His anger in having broken his oath to Celebrian, for Erestor and Glorfindel’s part in it, and the suspicion that now plagued him because of his friends’ odd behavior – all these he vented in a fit of sexual energy, lost in the bliss of both the suppurative release of his anger and the intense pleasure he felt from the torrid and clenching aperture he was using to expel his pent up emotions. _I have wanted Erestor for a long time, and now I have him,_ the half-Elf’s wayward mind told him.

“Elrond,” the advisor panted, struggling to get his arms out of the Elf Lord’s grasp while pressing his thighs together to dislodge Elrond from between them. “Slow, Elrond, please.”

But the Imladrian Lord paid these pleas no mind, for his peak was near. Letting loose Erestor’s arms, he seized instead the advisor’s thighs, pressing them forcefully apart and against Erestor’s chest as he continued relentlessly for his own climax. It came over him quickly, his hips jerking of their own accord until absolute mindlessness overwhelmed him, the familiar loss of control and caring coming with his accomplished rapture. And even when finished, when he felt the heat of his own seed filling the trembling body beneath him, Elrond did not stop but gave several more sadistic thrusts in brutal completion, milking from his member every last frisson of pleasure, and from his guilty mind every last thought of Celebrian.

His desire spent and his mind utterly without thought, the half-Elf flung himself across the bed before his legs, weak from the intense pleasure he had found, gave way under him. When he rolled to his side to see that Erestor had not fallen from the bed, the dark Elf was sitting at the mattress’ edge. The advisor seemed to sob his breath until his harsh breathing stopped altogether. “I should leave,” the advisor whispered, his voice carefully bereft of any emotion. Walking slowly, stiffly to the end of the bed, he gathered his clothes there where he had left them; the advisor told his Lord quietly by way of excuse, “I have a report to finish.”

Elrond’s cognition returned at the false tone of Erestor’s words, and with it returned his hateful suspicion. _And so after you have what you have come for, you leave me once more alone._

“You depart already, Erestor? How quickly your mind changes from sleep to work, or is your report nothing more than that you are eager to report to Glorfindel that your stratagem has worked again?” The advisor did not reply to Elrond’s vituperative and insinuating statement. Although he could not check his emotion, the half-Elf did not regret it.

He did not watch the dark Elf get dressed though he heard the rustle of the advisor doing so: he wanted Erestor to stay with him, to spend the night in his bed as the advisor had asked. It seemed an insignificant act, but having the advisor remain would be a comfort that Elrond had not experienced, and one he desired more than the boisterous sex he had enjoyed. _Erestor never intended to stay, did he? It was only another ruse, another strategy._ Confused as to why his sable lover would bother with such tactics and what end the advisor meant to achieve with them, Elrond tried to decipher what ulterior motives his friends had for him. _I am tired of their games._

“Then I will see you for the morning meeting, Erestor?” he asked. Waiting for an answer, Elrond finally sat up to see what the dark Elf did now and why he was silent.

The advisor was gone. The only indications he had ever been there were the indent on the pillows and mattress where his body had laid, the soft smell of sweat and sex, and the disturbing, crimson tinge of blood on the edge of the otherwise spotless white sheet. 


	7. Chapter 7

_Blood?_

He rolled over onto his side, and then off the bed, his feet touching the carpeted floor without sound though his movements were rushed and his body felt heavy in the daze of his post coital exhaustion. Elrond crossed the room in a few long strides, gliding around the end of the bed and to its other side. Along the edge of the bed were several drops of dark liquid, seemingly random upon the sheet, had not they been grouped together in a wayward line, as if the fluid had dripped from the end of a dagger.

Kneeling on the floor, the half-Elf first inspected the specks of crimson liquid staining the sheet before his vision, which was hindered by the lack of light in the room, and his mind, needing to be certain of what he saw, demanded that he seek tactile affirmation as well. Using the tip of one finger, Elrond pressed his digit against the stain, and then brought the finger to his nose – the coppery smell was not one the Elf Lord would ever have mistaken, for he had smelled blood more times than he cared to count. But this time, the blood was not from one wounded by battle or accident. This time, the blood was on his own hands, quite literally, and the thought of just how this claret had arrived on his bed made Elrond blanch until his features were as white as the once clean sheet.

_I have hurt Erestor._ His healer’s mind could not understand this concept. Although once a warrior, the half-Elf could not remember a time when he had willingly hurt another outside of battle or due to some mishap. _He is injured._ Elrond knew exactly how he had hurt the beautiful, dark Elf, and so looked down to his lower body for further confirmation: though filmy with his own seed and the scant oil he had used on Erestor, the pinkish tinge of blood was evident on the Elf Lord’s lax member. It was not a dagger from which the blood had dripped, but from his own shaft.

Elrond shook his head, smiling in disbelief as he denied to himself, too confused by this finding to consider it. _It is a mistake. Perhaps…_ His mind searched frantically for a way for the blood to be explained, his certainty in his own blamelessness steadfast. However, after contriving and then discarding several scenarios under which the blood could be explained, the half-Elf could find no plausible reasoning with which to support his skepticism. He could find no excuse for the presence of fresh blood on his bed without it being Erestor’s blood. The confusion fled him as rapidly as his smile with this realization. _I have truly hurt him. It is no wonder he wished to leave so quickly. He would not desire to share a bed with one who had abused him._

He stood with jerky and unnatural motions. His bedroom seemed to tilt on an axis, his feet, seemingly stuck to the floor, were the center around which Elrond’s world seemed to spin and slope. _I have hurt Erestor._

A feeling assailed him that he had not felt in a long time, the feeling one that he did not immediately recognize, so foreign did the sickness feel. Elrond fell back to his knees, fumbling under the bed for the chamber pot just as the first heave caused his stomach to contract, emptying into the receptacle the miruvor and dinner he had partaken of that night. For a few moments, the Elf Lord retched in bewildered illness, too late thinking to pull his hair away from his face and out of the way before he had soiled it. Elrond found he did not care: the image of Erestor, struggling to remove his arms from the half-Elf’s grasp, pleading with Elrond to slow his fast pace, caused the Imladrian leader’s heaving to renew, and he gripped the chamber pot with both hands, willing the image to leave him with the nausea.

Long after he had nothing left to empty from his aching belly did it finally stop tormenting him. Elrond’s hands shook as he pushed the chamber pot away from him, the smell of his own sickness threatening to restart his stomach’s protest. The idea that Elrond, the healer to whom peoples from all over Arda came for help, the leader of Imladris to whom was entrusted one of the Elven rings of power, and the friend to the very Elf whom he had ravaged… that this same Elf had eagerly, knowingly harmed his advisor when Erestor had pled with him to stop elicited a low moan of distress from the half-Elf.

He pushed the sticky hair away from his face, only to be further sickened by its putrid smell and tackiness. Elrond felt the urge to bathe, to clean the vomit from his mouth, his face and hair, and to wash himself of the blood, Erestor’s blood, which slicked his body. _What have I done? Am I such a fool that I would have wounded Erestor without noticing? Or am I only so lecherous that I would harm Erestor for my own gratification without thinking of his safety?_

The answers to these questions seemed simple enough, and as he crawled to his knees, and then to his feet from the floor, the only true question he cared to answer was where Erestor was, and whether he was well. But naked, smelling of sex and vomit, and wanting to be rid of the blood on him, the half-Elf seized the bed sheet by its stained cloth, yanking the fabric from the down mattress, though with it he brought the pillows and blankets. The latter he left on the floor where they fell, while the sheet he wrapped around his hand, balling it into something less offensive than the shameful evidence of his lustful violence that it truly was.

_I must see to Erestor,_ he ordered himself to force his mind into action. With the sheet in hand, the half-Elf crossed the room to the washbasin, but did not consider what he might do with the bedclothes. Unconsciously, he sought to hide the sheet, to help him deny what he had done, but his own selfish thoughts made him throw the fabric to the side without hiding it, denigrating himself, _This can wait, Erestor cannot._ So too could wait his washing the blood from his member and Erestor’s semen from the front of his stomach, but Elrond knew he could not walk through the halls of his home, much less face Erestor, without doing so first. _Then quickly,_ he chided, picking up the pitcher to pour water into the basin. However, his hands, still shaking from misery, shook the jug free from his fingers, and the ceramic pitcher fell to the stone floor with what seemed to Elrond to be a deafening crash of broken pieces and gushing water.

He fell to his knees again, sopping up the spilt water with the sheet he had only just tossed to the side. _Sweet Eru, Elrond,_ the half-Elf complained of himself, brushing ceramic shards into a pile with his free hand, _will you make a mess of everything tonight?_ The unbidden image came to Elrond’s mind of him lying across his bed while accusing Erestor of leaving so that the advisor could run to Glorfindel, to tell the commander of his conquest. _Oh Valar,_ the Imladrian Lord thought, his hand fisting in the drenched sheet and water on the floor, promptly forgetting everything save this worry. _He will tell Glorfindel._

Elrond looked down at the revealing sheet. _It would be my word against his,_ he thought, but then chastised himself for thinking such a thing, _you idiot. It does not matter if any believe whether you have hurt him or not. You have done it, and Erestor is injured._ Nevertheless, he could not let his sons or daughter ever hear of this. He would not allow Erestor to tell Glorfindel, not if the golden Elf did not already know, for he did not know whom Glorfindel would tell, or what might happen should anyone else find out about Elrond’s transgressions. _I must talk to Erestor, I must apologize,_ he decided, rubbing the soaked cloth roughly, absently over his stomach and genitals to be free of the evidence staining him there. _This must not become common knowledge._

When as clean as he could manage in such haste, the Elf Lord rummaged through the bedclothes on the floor, looking under them for the clothing he had thrown there earlier when disrobing for Erestor. Tossing pillows and blankets back to the bed, Elrond ignored the pang of discomfort that reminded him of who had sewn the cushions he haphazardly cast back to the mattress; Celebrian had spent hours stitching the ivy along the pillow’s edge, with similar adornment on each sheet as well. _It was our marriage bed,_ he thought, snagging his robe in one hand and his leggings in the other as he stood. _These are the sheets on which we consummated our bonding. She wanted the bed to be perfect, chaste and beautiful, just as she was._ The down mattress had been replaced many times over since her departure – the bedclothes had been perfectly maintained, washed carefully though they had not been used but a few times, and never since Celebrian's departure, for Elrond had not once used the bed until tonight. _Now they are ruined._

Elrond sat on the chaotic bed in question, holding his clothes in his hands only to stare at them, forgetting his purpose as the sorrow swept over him. “Twice in one day,” the half-Elf said aloud, speaking to the room as if speaking to Celebrian. “Twice today I have sullied our marriage bed. Once in breaking our vows for nothing more than to sate my lust, and then again tonight to sate my anger, breaking my friendship with Erestor.”

Hearing the advisor’s name renewed his flagging ambition to find the dark Elf, and so Elrond quickly donned his leggings, slipping the robe over his shoulder and tying it as he walked to his chamber door. _It will not be too late. This is a misunderstanding. I must convince Erestor of this._

He left his room in disarray. It now looked more like something violent and horrible had occurred in the half-Elf’s chambers than it had just after he had harmed Erestor. Forcing himself not to run through the halls, the Elven Lord plaited his hair into a single long braid as he walked: the once sticky strands were slightly stiff with the sickness that he had not had the chance to clean from them. Elrond pushed wayward locks behind his ears in an attempt to hide his disheveled appearance from any he might encounter. When out of his family’s hall, he walked quickly up the stairs, calming himself with reasoning. _Erestor came to my rooms for the very thing he received. I should not have hurt him, but I did not know until afterwards,_ he prevaricated, feeling all the while that he had known he was injuring Erestor, and in fact, had enjoyed the advisor’s pain. _Erestor enjoyed himself as well. The proof of this is on the sheets –_ no matter how he spun the events of the evening, the truth remained the same – _the same sheets that are stained with his blood._

Elrond first tried the advisor’s chamber door: he knocked rapidly, albeit softly so not to bother any of the dark Elf’s neighbors. _Be here, Erestor,_ he prayed, wanting to find the advisor as easily as possible. Again, he knocked, and again there was no answer to his rapping against the wooden portal. _If he is not here, then he is with Glorfindel,_ Elrond worried.

He tried the doorknob, twisting it several times, and not wanting to accept that it was locked even though it did not budge the first time he tried. “Erestor,” the half-Elf called softly, his mouth almost pressed to the door as he spoke. “If you are here, my friend, please answer me.”

_I dare call him friend after what I have done to him._

Waiting only a moment for an answer, Elrond tried again, beseeching Erestor, “This is an urgent matter, Erestor. Open the door.” He left the nature of the urgent matter undisclosed. If the advisor had been within, Elrond was almost certain that he would have responded to the half-Elf’s summons, for Elrond could just as well have been seeking his counsel on a matter urgent to Imladris, and not personal business: Erestor was Elrond’s advisor, his servant regardless of their friendship, and would never shirk duty.

No answering call or the sound of footsteps came to Elrond’s ears. _He is not here. Where else could he have gone?_

The most obvious place for Elrond to look for his advisor was in Glorfindel’s rooms, but the half-Elf left this option open until desperation drove him to it. So instead, the Imladrian leader flew down hallways and down stairwells, slowing only when entering the passage leading to his destination, and passing two Elves on duty to guard the empty offices of his advisors and the councilors for the night. They nodded to him, and Elrond smiled falsely at them in return, sweeping the tapestry out of his way before he once more hurried down the hall. None were in their studies or the libraries of ledgers and scrolls that contained information regarding Imladrian concerns. The door to Erestor’s study was unlocked, as it was always open, and the half-Elf did not knock ere he was in the room. Elrond made a quick search of the study, hoping that Erestor may be telling the truth, that he might find the dark Elf in his study, working on a report.

Glancing around the study, the half-Elf considered, _Where else might he have gone?_ There was once a time when Elrond would have been familiar with the comings and goings of his friends, when he would have known their haunts and hobbies, and therefore would have had a clue as to where to find Erestor. But now, as he surveyed the room, finding only books and papers, quills and ink, the half-Elf was forced to admit, _I am unacquainted with Erestor’s habits, much less where he spends his time._ The half-Elf cast aside the nagging suspicion that he knew some of Erestor’s habits, the foremost of which was Glorfindel. _I did not even know of_ these _habits until recently._

_I will check the library,_ he thought, slamming the study door shut behind him as he tread hastily down the hallway, passing the two guards once more, before he ran up the stairs.

It was not late at night: visitors from all over Middle Earth, and some from beyond, were staying in the Last Homely House, but thankfully for Elrond, most of these Elves, men, and other creatures were outside enjoying the beautiful night, rather than within the large house. Those that were indoors were ensconced in their rooms or still enjoying the company found in the hall of fire. For this reason, Elrond passed few people as he walked, though those that he did encounter did not stop the normally friendly half-Elf as he strode through his home. Perhaps it was the imposing nature with which Elrond walked that kept them from halting his search with their well-meaning greetings: the Imladrian was clearly on a mission of some importance, and so most only smiled their salutation.

Each smile did Elrond return, though he could not have recalled who passed him or what they said. They were not Erestor, and so he did not stop until he reached the library.

Elrond waited inside one of the many sets of doors, listening for the sounds of others in the giant room: the library in which he stood, unlike his personal library of herbal lore and other subjects, was open to all in good faith that they would use it wisely. However, late at night, amorous and oftentimes barely mature Elves would take advantage of the secluded aisles and alcoves, and the Imladrian Lord did not want to interrupt some carnal gathering, nor did he want to be seen running recklessly through the walkways in his search for Erestor. Hearing nothing in the dark room, the half-Elf checked each passageway systematically, glancing with keen and worried vision down each aisle for any sign that Erestor was here, or had been here. He still found nothing.

_Erestor could be anywhere. He could have packed a bag, mounted his horse, and now be on his way to ‘Lorien._ This only served to increase the half-Elf’s panic. _Do not let him have left Imladris,_ he prayed as he left the library. If the advisor had fled the valley out of hurt or fear, then he only placed himself in further danger, and Elrond would not survive the guilt should something else befall the beautiful advisor. Erestor had not appeared terribly upset upon leaving Elrond’s chambers; however, the Imladrian would not chance the advisor’s health, either physical or emotional, by presuming Erestor to be well. Nor would he stop searching: he needed to apologize to his dark lover.

_There is only one place else I could conceivably hope to find Erestor without needing to amass a search party for him,_ the half-Elf told himself, walking dejectedly to where the commander’s rooms were located, his steps becoming ever slower as he grew nearer. _And if he is not here, then I will have Glorfindel aid me in finding him._ Elrond did not want to admit to the commander, much less to himself, that he had harmed Erestor. And yet, leaving the advisor on his own, however slight his bleeding or superficial his wound, made the bile rise in the healer’s throat – it was he who had caused Erestor’s wounds. It would be he who would see to them.

Standing before the commander’s door, Elrond shook his head in a futile attempt to clear it of the thoughts conspiring there, thoughts that wished him to hide what he had done, to deny it, and most of all, to go back to his rooms, to forget Erestor, and to pretend that he had not injured one of his two closest friends, and in all likelihood had therefore lost them both. Before he could lose his courage, the half-Elf raised his hand to knock on the door, needing only to beat on it once ere Glorfindel himself opened the portal to the commander’s chambers. 


	8. Chapter 8

He did not know if he would be welcomed, especially if Glorfindel had seen or talked to Erestor after the dark advisor had fled Elrond’s rooms. However, as Glorfindel did not slay Elrond where he stood, waiting for entrance into the commander’s quarters, the Imladrian Lord told himself, _Glorfindel must not know._

“Elrond,” the stately warrior told the half-Elf evenly. Upon seeing that it was his Lord that had visited him, Glorfindel stepped out of his doorway and back into the room, allowing Elrond into the anteroom to the warrior’s bedroom with this wordless invitation.

Watching the shirtless Elf’s broad back as Glorfindel walked further into his chambers, Elrond followed slowly, hesitant to ask for the warrior’s help. He did not wish to tell Glorfindel what had just occurred between he and Erestor, nor did Elrond wish Glorfindel to know at all; however, the memory of Erestor’s blood on the white sheets of his bed, and the fear that he may have injured more than the advisor’s body with his careless cruelty, caused Elrond’s slow step to hasten.

He trailed the commander into the far corner of the room: in Glorfindel’s quarters, much like one would expect of a warrior’s living space, was nothing of great value or sentiment. The Balrog-slayer, though he had lived in Imladris for many years, had never taken the time or effort to embellish his chambers with fine decorations, carpets, or tapestries, for usually the commander spent little time in the house proper, but more time on the outlying lands with his warriors. Indeed, the guest rooms in the Last Homely House appeared more lived in than did Glorfindel’s chambers. Save for the long chaise set several feet before the hearth and the thirsty aloe plant sitting on the floor in front of the window, there was little that evinced that anyone lived in the room at all.

Glorfindel gestured to a wooden chair by the hearth, its seat dusty and hard. Again, the commander said nothing, but made his own way to the long couch. “I need your help, Glorfindel,” the Imladrian leader asked. He did not sit down.

“Of course,” the warrior replied at once, perching on the edge of the couch as if ready to spring into whatever action his Lord required of him. “What has happened?”

The commander’s thoughts were immediately for the welfare of Imladris and of her constituents, his calm demeanor becoming even more unruffled as his battle-seasoned mind slipped into the cold, logical reasoning of war. Elrond knew this well, for Glorfindel would not have expected Elrond to call upon him for help for anything short of an Orc attack. He held his hands up, flashing the warrior a short smile, to assure, “Nothing has happened, we are safe and Imladris secure.”

_Liar,_ he told himself, before he took a deep breath, and then licked his lips to stall admitting to the warrior what he had done.

“I need your help in another matter. Erestor was in my chambers tonight,” Elrond began, intending to explain to Glorfindel the circumstances surrounding his ignorant actions.

“I know this.” Glorfindel’s interruption was terse and laden with bitterness that Elrond could not understand. Stretching out across the low, long couch, Glorfindel arched his back, the slight sound of joints popping as Glorfindel reclined on the chaise underscoring the warrior’s statement. “And as you are here, and not in your chambers with Erestor, I take it Erestor’s stratagem did not go well.”

_Of course, Glorfindel would know Erestor was waiting for me tonight in my chambers. They are partners in this game they play against me._ The half-Elf sighed in contrition, his overwrought mind supplying, _But if this is a game, I have broken the rules._

Deciding explanations could wait, Elrond asked, “I am looking for Erestor, Glorfindel. Have you seen him? I have hurt him, and I must find him to make sure he is well.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, knowing he must appear discontent and guilty to the commander, but he could not stop his frantic mind’s control over his twitching muscles. Elrond felt the need to move, to search, to make certain that Erestor was unharmed.

The golden Elda’s hair shimmered, his normally cool features appearing afire in the coruscation of the firelight. With his breeches tight and his feet bare, the Balrog-slayer was magnificent, but Elrond noticed this only in part, for his mind was only for Erestor. “You do not deserve him.” Turning his head away from the half-Elf to face the hearth, the warrior added softly, “None deserves Erestor. I try my hardest to earn his love, and though he gives it, it is only as a friend.”

Suddenly, the warrior’s odd and forlorn demeanor no longer confused the half-Elf. _Glorfindel has fallen for our dark advisor. How long has he loved Erestor, and does Erestor even know?_ Shaking his head, the healer pushed these thoughts aside, his agitation increasing because he had not yet derived the information he sought from the abnormally despondent warrior.

From where he lay on the couch, the commander studied his Lord for a moment, eyed the Noldo with his icy blue eyes, and then stated candidly, “You are a fool for turning him down, Elrond.”

_Turning Erestor down? Of what does he speak? I have capitulated to their every whim!_

However, before he could ask the golden Elf what he meant, Glorfindel was speaking again, more quietly this time, as if speaking to the flames into which he stared and not to Elrond. “Erestor is a paradox,” Glorfindel murmured, rolling onto his side on the couch, and completely ignoring Elrond’s presence. “Since Celebrian sailed, you have been distant from us, your closest friends, Elrond. I told him that you would refuse him,” the commander rambled, propping his head up on a fist with his elbow upon the couch’s soft cushions. “Why Erestor loves you I could never guess.”

At first, the Elf Lord only fumed at Glorfindel’s casual mention of Celebrian, irate that the golden Elf seemed intent to dredge up the sour feelings Elrond held over the matter – however, as Elrond opened his mouth to chastise the commander for his carelessness, the air rushed from his lungs, bringing no words with them. _He could never guess… love?_

His surprise, though delayed, caused Elrond to stumble back a step, his mind blank with the realization: Erestor was in love with Elrond, and Elrond had assaulted him.

_Glorfindel is mistaken._ How Erestor had been disappointed when Elrond had first told the advisor he wished only to sleep, how the dark Elf had become angry at the half-Elf’s insinuation that he played a game with Elrond… all this became clear to Elrond.

Not noticing Elrond’s appalled disposition, Glorfindel continued, “The two of you are too much alike. Both of you are stubborn, and neither of you can admit to needing anything!” Snorting with disgust, the Balrog-slayer finally looked at Elrond, his next complaint faltering into silence as he watched the half-Elf’s face.

Elrond could not school his distress, and much as his shifty feet of earlier gave away his guilt, the Imladrian Lord knew that Glorfindel could now see the Noldo’s shock. “You did not know?” the golden Elf asked, sitting upright on the chaise in a hurried motion. “Erestor did not tell you?” Rising from the couch with as much hurry as he had sat upright, the commander needed only to see again the confused and horrified expression of Elrond’s visage to find his answer. “It was not my place to tell you! I had thought that because you were here, that you must have talked to Erestor!”

The golden Elda paced to the fireplace and then back to the couch, his long legs making a short walk of the area between the hearth and chaise. “He had planned to tell you tonight, Elrond, although I told him you would only reject him again, as you did the first night he came to your chambers.”

“I did not reject him tonight,” the Noldo demurred, wanting to defend his misdeeds though he had yet to tell Glorfindel of them.

_Erestor intended to tell me tonight… and I gave him no chance to do so._ The image of the advisor, gathering his clothes and nearly fleeing the room after Elrond’s vile actions, almost had the half-Elf’s belly revolting against him again: the sickening roiling of his emptied stomach had commenced once more.

Crossing his arms over his chest, though it was his belly he wished to hold, Elrond swallowed thickly. “That is not why he fled.”

“But you said you hurt him, Elrond. If he did not tell you of his love, and you did not reject him, why do you seek him? Why did he flee?”

Glorfindel had never been one slow to understand anything. It was a trait that had saved the lives of many Elves, both under his command and not, and the commander’s station in Imladris was secured for this quickness of mind. Thus, it did not take but a moment after asking his question that the commander answered it himself. “You did not hurt Erestor by rejecting him. You _hurt_ him.” The Balrog-slayer stepped closer to Elrond, the calm and deadly warrior’s ire breaking against the half-Elf in palpable waves of wrath. “You hurt him… physically. What did you do?”

Fumbling for an answer adequate to pacify the commander, Elrond spoke quickly, saying, “It was an accident, Glorfindel.”

“An accident? If Erestor were hurt by accident, why would you be looking for him? He would still be with you – he would not have fled.” Clearing the distance between himself and Elrond, Glorfindel towered over the shorter half-Elf, his few inches of greater height seeming to make the Balrog-slayer appear as a giant before Elrond – a violent, angry giant. “An accident in your thinking, perhaps. Tell me, Elrond.”

Had it been another matter over which the two friends had been arguing, or had Elrond told Glorfindel he had hurt any Elf other than Erestor, Elrond would not have considered that the commander might injure his liege. However, the golden Elda had only moments before confessed unwittingly his love for Erestor, his jealousy that Erestor loved Elrond, and his belief that Elrond would only hurt the advisor. Elrond could nearly smell the promise of bloodshed.

Breathing deeply to calm his racing, shamed heart, the Imladrian Lord thought of how to explain, and eventually chose to be blunt with the commander rather than try to minimize the situation: Glorfindel had been the half-Elf’s close friend for most of the commander’s second life, and the golden Elda would discern any fabrication. “He sought to share my bed, Glorfindel, and I ceded to his desires. However,” Elrond muttered, “I was too rough with him.”

Even should the commander use violence, Elrond would not back down or step away – Glorfindel’s anger was just, and the half-Elf was no coward. And yet, when Glorfindel cleared the scant space between them, his hand reaching out to grab the front of the half-Elf’s shirt, Elrond felt something as foreign to him as the feeling of sickness had felt to him earlier – he felt afraid.

“Rough with him?” Twisting his hand into the cloth covering Elrond’s chest, Glorfindel stepped forward once more, which in turn pushed Elrond backwards, until the half-Elf felt the stone wall against his back. “How?”

Before Elrond could answer, the commander curled his nose in distaste, and then commented, “You smell of sickness.”

“It is mine,” the leader told Glorfindel, pushing at the larger Elf’s chest in a vain attempt to free himself of the intimidating presence. The commander merely held tighter, unwilling to allow the half-Elf any leniency until he had told Glorfindel the truth of what had occurred. “I became sick after realizing what I had done.”

“Which you have yet to tell me of, _my Lord,_ ” the golden Elf decried, pushing his fisted hand into Elrond’s chest to emphasize his impatience.

Hoping that he had already divulged enough for the commander to deduce of what crime he spoke, Elrond realized that the warrior had either not understood what the half-Elf had tried to intimate, or that Glorfindel merely disbelieved Elrond could do such a thing. Either way, the Imladrian leader would be forced to confess his crimes. _Out with it already, you fool,_ he told himself, _let Glorfindel black your eye and be done with it so that we may search for Erestor!_

Sighing, Elrond told his friend of many years, repeating, “I have harmed Erestor. I took him too roughly, and when he asked me to slow…” Already he was changing the facts of the story, and with the murderous glower the commander gave him, Elrond amended quickly, “When Erestor begged me to slow, I did not.”

Confusion flickered across Glorfindel’s fair, hard features, before it was replaced by incredulity, and then rage. “You raped him.”

His belly protested the very use of the word: Elrond shook his head fiercely, arguing, “No, Glorfindel! He came to my room to share my bed! I did not force him, I…”

The blur of pale skin and the consequent pain that erupted in Elrond’s head seemed unrelated, so quick did the two events happen. The half-Elf found himself on the floor, the cool stone greeting his head in a debilitating thud; he could see the vague image of the commander’s golden hair as Glorfindel fell to his knees. Methodically, the mostly nude and homicidal Balrog-slayer beat against Elrond’s chest and stomach, causing Elrond’s belly to heave and his vision to black as the beating had taken him off his guard.

Straddling Elrond’s chest, and wrapping his strong hands around the half-Elf’s neck, Glorfindel hissed, “You raped him.”

Glorfindel hovered over the half-Elf, the tranquil fury he exhibited unnerving the Imladrian as much as the commander’s position atop him and the large hands currently wrapping their long fingers around his neck. “Glorfindel,” he whispered, his own hands trying to pry away the Balrog-slayer’s, but the commander’s grip did not give way, though Elrond’s consciousness soon surrendered. 


	9. Chapter 9

Elrond’s consciousness returned to him in a rush of sound – people were arguing around him, and he knew that he was the topic of their disagreement. He remained still with his eyes closed when realizing that one of the voices was Glorfindel – at the moment, the commander was not pummeling Elrond, and the half-Elf did not wish for Glorfindel to resume his wrathful beating upon noticing that Elrond was awake again.

He could hear a sigh, and felt a hand at his arm, where it lay familiarly against his wrist, the finger’s curling around to test the rapidly moving pulse. “I do not believe you have injured him seriously.”

This voice was Erestor’s kind tenor, which seemed to be concerned for Elrond; a notion that turned the half-Elf’s already churning stomach. He did not deserve Erestor’s worry.

“I find it difficult to believe that he came to you to tell you of this,” the advisor continued. “And I find it even more troublesome that he claims to have raped me.”

The Balrog-slayer admitted, “He did not claim to have raped you, Erestor. He told me that he was too rough with you, and came to elicit my help in finding you. He was worried that he had hurt you.”

“And so you beat him into unconsciousness?” Erestor asked with obvious disbelief. Silence followed this question, and the fingers measuring the half-Elf’s heartbeat disappeared. The cushion of the settee shifted as Erestor moved in agitation, and the advisor addressed the rest of Glorfindel’s explanation, saying, “You merely assumed that I had been hurt, when I am fine.”

He felt witness to a lover’s quarrel, one that never would have been made had the two Elves known that their Lord was awake and listening.

“We should take him to the healers,” he heard Glorfindel say, “let them fret over him.”

The sound of the commander’s voice was closer, and louder, but it had grown no less angry than last Elrond had heard it, thereby fomenting his decision to stay ignored. Elrond did not need another beating, not if he ever hoped to apologize to Erestor tonight.

“And tell the healers what, Glorfindel? That you _accidentally_ choked your liege and nearly broke his neck? That your fists acted of their own accord when you thrashed him?”

“If any asks, we will just tell him what he has done to you, Erestor.”

Not able to see Erestor’s reaction to this, the Imladrian leader hoped that Erestor would deny Glorfindel in this matter, but also realized that if his people knew of his actions, it would only be what he deserved. Even though he could not see Erestor, the dark advisor must have negated Glorfindel’s suggestion in some way, for he heard Glorfindel huff in aggravation.

Having known the Balrog-slayer for millennia, he could tell by the tone of Glorfindel’s voice that he was livid, that the fair Elf was on the verge on violence. He could imagine Glorfindel trying to refrain from restarting his thrashing of the Imladrian healer. “You would protect him,” the golden Elf hissed, “even after what he has done to you.”

“Remember of whom you speak, Glorfindel,” the advisor returned in a similar, angry manner, “this is Elrond, not some nitwit Elfling.” The Elf in question could hear Erestor take in a deep breath, calming himself before he added in appeasement, “I pushed him too far tonight – that is all. He became carried away, and I am not even hurt. None need know of this, because there is nothing for them to know. I will not have Elrond’s name sullied, his children to find out about this, when it is naught more than a misunderstanding.”

“I am not so sure that his children do not deserve to know what kind of Elf their father truly is,” Glorfindel warned, sounding even nearer now.

Elrond forsook the daze in which he was mired and woke entirely, his eyes opening wide at the thought of his commander telling the twins why their father was bruised and injured, of his beautiful daughter ever hearing even a _rumor_ that her Ada was a rapist. Indeed, he did not even want them to know that their Ada had severed his oath to their beloved Naneth, as this alone might break their hearts. He rushed to sit, to negotiate, to explain, to beg, plead, or submit to whatever his two friends wanted to ensure their understanding, but more importantly, their silence.

“Be careful, Elrond,” the gracious advisor told his Lord, keeping the half-Elf from rising from the couch. “I am not sure how you are injured. You should not –”

“Do not tell my children,” the healer interrupted in a voice broken with disgrace, fear, and wound. From his surroundings, he could see that he was still in Glorfindel’s chambers. He pushed away Erestor’s helping hand to sit properly upon the couch. “It was a mistake,” he told them, speaking not just of his forceful session with Erestor tonight, but also of the debauchery that he had willingly enjoyed with the two Eldar to whom he spoke.

Erestor shook his head before lowering it to evade the healer’s gaze, his loose, long dark hair falling over his face as he conceded with a sigh, “I would not tell them, Elrond. They are only children, and I would not lower their high opinion of their Ada, not for an error such as this.”

He sighed himself, relieved that his twins and daughter would never hear of their father’s misdeeds. “And you, Glorfindel?”

At Elrond’s imploring, the commander paced away from them and to the fire. The flames in the hearth blazed behind the Balrog-slayer who stood in front of it, lighting the shirtless, golden Elda into the affectation of a halcyon warrior – a soldier the brawny Elda was, but untroubled Glorfindel was anything but. The fair commander looming nearby did not appear as accommodating as Erestor had been, and he did not answer Elrond’s query.

“I will see to it that he keeps his silence, Elrond.” The advisor turned to look at Glorfindel, giving the commander a look that Elrond could not see. “I came to your rooms tonight for pleasure, and I found it. There is nothing to tell anyone.”

The Balrog-slayer shifted his stance at Erestor’s words, his lips thinning in a grimace as he kept his irritated reply behind them. No repentance could Elrond see in Glorfindel’s demeanor, no regret for having caused the Elf Lord the pain that currently made his eyes water, and his vision of the fair Elda swim before him.

However, Elrond did not doubt that Erestor would truly see to it that Glorfindel would not leak this information to anyone else, for what he now knew of Glorfindel, that he had lost his heart to Erestor, evinced that the commander would do nothing else to upset the advisor.

“Come, Elrond. It is late. I will help you to your rooms,” the advisor suggested as he stood, offering his arm out to pull Elrond up from his seat on the couch.

Glorfindel strode forward and grabbed Erestor’s arm before Elrond could catch it with his hand. “You are not taking him anywhere, Erestor. I will take him, if you insist that he needs a chaperone to make it to his room without further incident.”

That wasn’t Erestor’s reasoning at all; Glorfindel knew this but was only trying to inflame Elrond, and perhaps the advisor. Not only had he likely destroyed his friendship with Erestor and Glorfindel, he had strained the relationship between his two friends, as well.

Jerking his arm from Glorfindel’s grasp, Erestor told him quietly, “I do not need your permission, nor do I need your protection. This is a misunderstanding, and when your anger has cooled, we will speak of this civilly.”

Again, Erestor held out his arm, and this time, Glorfindel did not try to stop him.

Despite trying his best to appear unhurt, Elrond found that even with Erestor’s help, he could hardly stand properly. He would crawl to his rooms to relieve himself of Glorfindel’s glower, if need be, but such a thing would not have been allowed to occur, anyway, not by Erestor, and not even by Glorfindel.

Thus, when the Imladrian healer swayed forward, two sets of hands appeared at his side to help him – Glorfindel’s were quickly removed, however, and the commander stepped back to say vindictively, “I should have broken your neck, Elrond.”

“Enough,” Erestor told the commander, his hands remaining on the healer’s body to keep him aright. “Can you walk, my Lord?” Erestor asked Elrond with eerie formality.

He nodded, though he was certain he would fall should he take a step. Erestor turned away from the irate commander to help Elrond out of the room, but the half-Elf was foolish enough to watch Glorfindel for a moment more. The Balrog-slayer studied Erestor’s turned back, gauging by the advisor’s words, his actions, his mere presence, if Erestor were truly as well as he said.

Glorfindel had beaten Elrond because he had hurt Erestor – the commander had been acting out of rage, yes, but also out of love for the advisor. That Erestor, who was in love with Elrond, and not Glorfindel, now chose to help his assailer to his rooms, must have wounded the commander deeply. Indeed, the advisor was even upset with Glorfindel for taking vengeance on Elrond, when the commander had only been thinking of Erestor when doing so.

Glorfindel noted that Elrond watched him: the sadness fell from his face to be replaced with rage once more, and the healer looked away. He knew that his quarrel with Glorfindel was not over. In all things, the fair Elda was a soldier, and he would not stand down until this battle had been won.

“I will return shortly, Glorfindel,” the advisor promised his warrior lover, his voice soft and conciliatory, and he then led Elrond from the room.

Being as Elves were not inclined nor required to take as much sleep as others of Eru’s creation, the halls of the Last Homely House were not barren of her inhabitants. Elrond tugged at the collar of his robe so that it hid the redness of his throat where Glorfindel’s hands had been wrapped around it. The darkening bruise on his face he could do nothing about, but he tried to keep his face turned away from passersby. Fortunate for Elrond, the weather outside was balmy this night, and with the hour late, most of the guests of the Last Homely House were in their quarters or enjoying the night’s beauty, and not roaming the corridors. Erestor led them quickly through the least used hallways, deflecting for Elrond any salutations or well wishing that came their way.

His legs worked fine though his chest hurt immensely, and so he kept pace with Erestor easily only because he leant most of his weight against the advisor’s side, his arm tucked between Erestor’s to keep himself standing. They could have been walking in deep conference, speaking of some serious issue, and none would have known otherwise.

Once inside the Elf Lord’s chambers, Erestor let go of his casual hold of Elrond’s arm. He looked around him, leaving Elrond to make his way to the bed, where he perched on its edge with reluctance to be sitting where only earlier he had harmed Erestor. Having the advisor in the room made the Imladrian leader more than merely uncomfortable – the feeling of nausea that had caused him to be sick earlier returned to him now.

“What is this, Elrond?” the advisor asked, sweeping his arms out around him to indicate the untidy chamber.

This is not of what he had wished to speak with the advisor, nor did he wish to explain right now his reaction to finding out he had hurt Erestor, which was the cause of his bedroom’s disarray. “Are you injured?” he asked belatedly, and felt the fool for not asking Erestor this the moment he had awoken from unconsciousness.

The dark Elf let his head fall forwards, dismissing the healer’s question by shaking it, still without returning Elrond’s gaze. “I have hurt worse after sexual play before – this is nothing.”

“Who has hurt you thusly?” the Noldo raged, his mind supplying him with images of the dark Elf suffering at the hands of another, and what torment he wished to force upon any who would hurt his friend. After a moment, Elrond realized that _he_ was counted amongst the number who had harmed the advisor, and so lowered his own head in shame.

He wanted to tell the advisor why he had harmed him, why Erestor’s pleas to slow in their lovemaking had gone unheard. He wanted to tell Erestor why he had been so cruel and thoughtless. But Erestor believed his liege to have been lost in the moment of passion, or at least, earlier he had claimed to Glorfindel to believe this. _I am not sure I would have him knowing otherwise._

To tell the dark Elf that Elrond had desired his suffering, to make Erestor pay for Elrond’s transgressions and broken oaths to Celebrian, to himself – speaking of such things would be the end of his and the advisor’s friendship, if it were not already in jeopardy. It would be to admit that Elrond suffered, as well, and he could not allow this.

“I am sorry, Erestor,” the Imladrian healer apologized lamely, sincere in his words but the words themselves not enough to convey this sincerity. “It is as you say: I became carried away, and was not myself.”

Erestor did not believe him. He could see this as clearly as he could see the advisor’s normally olive brown skin was ashy with discomfort and grief. His friend knew that something sinister lay beneath the half-Elf’s deeds, or at least, this is what he told himself. _I have taken out my shame on Erestor, when I have none to blame but myself._

“Do not worry over it, my Lord.” Erestor crossed his arms over his chest, appearing less like he was standing his ground and more as if he were embracing himself. Glorfindel’s anger he could handle, but Erestor’s quiet pain he could not, especially not after having heard from the commander earlier this night of Erestor’s plans to make known to Elrond his love for him.

Elrond had known the Elf before him for years, and for as long as the Last Homely House had stood in the valley, Erestor had lived here, counseling Elrond in matters of importance to the Imladrian people. Who now could he turn to when the one he would seek out for advice was the one whom had he hurt?

Unable to accept that tonight’s events would forever change his and the advisor’s friendship, he asked Erestor, “If I did not injure you, why then did you flee?”

“To finish a report,” the swarthy Elf repeated as he had told Elrond when he had left earlier. His gaze drifted across the room as he offered a demurral of Elrond’s questioning with the phantom of a smile, “I should return to Glorfindel, lest he come charging in here to exact his wrath again.”

The dark Elf would go back to his lover, the commander who had nearly killed Elrond tonight – the golden Elda loved Erestor, though the advisor did not yet know it. Nevertheless, with Glorfindel, at least, the advisor would be cared for – even though he told Elrond he was not hurt, and agreed that it was a misunderstanding, Erestor should not be left alone.

Elrond rued that Erestor would be going to Glorfindel’s rooms instead of staying with the half-Elf. _Why would he wish to stay here?_ Without further goodbye, the advisor left the room, closing the door behind him without a sound, while Elrond watched. _Why would he wish to be anywhere near the one who has hurt him so?_

Heaving the weight of his body forward, the half-Elf struggled to stand from his seat on the bed, thinking, _What have I done? This night will be the end of everything that I have tried to accomplish here in Imladris, all for which I have worked._

Elrond stumbled his way to the door to turn the lock on it, something that he had not done since the twins had been young and needy during the night, and had once walked in on him and Celebrian making love.

Hobbling to his chair, Elrond fell into it, causing the seat to creak at the misuse. He surveyed the damage to his room and thought with distaste, _I will need to clean this before the servants see it. There is no need to cause any more misgiving than I already have._

What he would say to those wondering why his face was bruised, and how he would deflect suspicions concerning his odd behavior this night, both while searching for Erestor and the odd looks he received while walking with Erestor to his chambers, the Elf Lord could not fathom.

He should likely have gone to the healing wing, if not to see one of his healers, then to obtain something for himself to stave off the swelling in his throat and face made by the contusions his commander’s wrath had left. The notion of fending more Elves from expressing their curiosity and congeniality did not appeal to him, and so he remained as he was.

_You deserved this punishment from Glorfindel. If he had slain you on the spot, you would receive no mercy from your people. You are vile,_ he blamed.

He would not need drink to lull him to sleep tonight. His aching neck and other injuries caused him to lay his head upon the high back of his chair, and with his feet placed on the ottoman, Elrond closed his eyes against the sight of the room around him, and fell quickly into reverie.  


	10. Chapter 10

A knock upon his door wakened the half-Elf. He stood without thinking to answer it, his mind still addled and pained, but this was normal for Elrond. Drinking oneself to sleep often had him awaking in such a state. The ottoman tumbled onto its side and rolled; Elrond reached down to stop its path, but the stretch of his aching side evaporated the last vestiges of his slumber, and he let the footstool tumble where it might.

Groaning, the half-Elf made to call out to ask who was at the door, but his abused throat only let loose a harsh scratch of its discontent.

“Ada?” a worried voice began from the hallway. “You have missed your morning meetings, and we came to see –

“— that you are well,” an equally anxious voice ended. “Are you well?”

Coughing painfully into the sleeve of his robe, Elrond stumbled a few steps toward the door. _I have missed the meetings this sunrise._ He had not missed these conferences a single time without good excuse – and for the most part, those excuses had caused the rest of his councilors to neglect them, also, for such disasters as wounded soldiers or warfare were the only justifiable reasons, in Elrond’s thinking, to be missing from the morning councils. _What story will I concoct to explicate my absence this morning?_

In walking to the door, his eyes caught sight of the awful state of his room. _I should have cleaned up last night,_ he chastised himself while looking about his chambers.

It was too late for such details now: Elladan and Elrohir were outside, and they had heard his moan of pain. He could hear them now turning the doorknob, trying to open it. That the door was locked when for the years since their mother had left it had not been fastened likely would be noticed by his observant sons. Elrond only hoped that he could find some explanation for the many ways in which he was not himself today.

Again, he tried to speak, this time coughing an excruciating bark to clear his throbbing throat. “A moment, my sons.”

Elrond smoothed his hair while standing before the door and felt that his braids were still stiff from his lack of care in holding them out of the way when he had vomited last night. _Son of an Orc,_ he complained bitterly, but could do nothing about the stiffness in his hair, or the smell, not without raising more suspicion from his sons by tarrying in letting them inside the room.

However, before opening the door, the Imladrian leader checked that the bloody sheet was where he had left that – that is, amidst the ceramic shards of the pitcher on the floor, and soaked with water. Wadded into a mass of fine linen, the sheet would not bear the spots of blood that had adorned it last night, not after soaking in the water for so many hours. But that the sheet was in the floor at all was suspicious enough, and so Elrond stepped away from the entryway to grab the fabric. With only the tips of his fingers touching the odious material, the half-Elf shoved the sopping sheet under the bed to sit beside the chamber pot nearly full of regurgitation.

 _I will clean this room before the servants see it, at least,_ he told himself, and wiped his hands upon his robe to remove from them the water thereon.

“Good morning, my sons,” he spoke as he turned the lock and then opened the door to his room.

Stepping into the chamber with Elladan behind him, Elrohir returned the greeting, saying, “Good morning, Ada.”

Here he stood in his disorderly chambers, his face and neck covered in bruises, and the rest of him as well, though the twins could not see them. He stank of vomit and blood, his robes were torn, and his hair was twisted into knots that would need to be picked out strand by strand, else be cut, so tight were they. The broken pitcher, overturned ottoman, the nearly empty bottle of miruvor that he had left near the bed before he and Erestor had copulated, and the bed itself were bound to draw questions. Although the bedclothes were no longer on the floor, they were scattered and pillows strewn about the mattress, and the lower sheet was gone, of course, for it was under the bed itself with more evidence of Elrond’s shame.

“Ada! What has happened?” the elder of his twins asked, his green eyes growing wide as he looked around him.

Elrond wavered on his feet. He could not lie to his sons. He could not tell them the truth, either. Before he could offer his best explanation for his appearance and actions, Elladan was shaking his head and laughing; he elbowed his brother in the side lightly, as if they shared some joke. And it seemed to the bewildered Elrond that they did, for Elrohir was smiling, as well.

Snickering, Elrohir told his twin, “You know what happened, Elladan.”

The half-Elf’s heart leapt in his chest; it seemed to stop, before it began to hammer. _They would not be laughing if they knew what had occurred here last night,_ Elrond reassured himself. Plastering a simulacrum of a smile upon his face, he waited for one of his sons to explain what they thought they knew.

Both twins laughed, and Elrohir shook his head while Elladan added to his twin’s jest, saying, “Erestor told us that you, he, and Glorfindel took too much drink last night, and that you had become so soused you fell!”

“He did not tell us that you looked as if a Troll had used you for a battering ram, Ada!” Elrohir said, giving his twin a playful push in return of Elladan’s jabbing elbow.

 _Thank Eru,_ the half-Elf prayed, his mind greedily grasping this excuse for what he did not otherwise know how to explain to his sons. Erestor had lied to Elrond’s sons by telling them this story, but the half-Elf could not be angry, for the advisor had done for Elrond what the half-Elf could not bring himself to do. _Even now he protects me,_ he thought bewilderedly of Erestor.

The twins believed their Ada to have drunk too much and to have become sick from it. He had never felt so ashamed, even in his relief. Elrond had no wish for his sons to see him as a drunkard but could only be glad that Elrohir and Elladan did not know the true reasons for his current state.

“We are all wont to indulge occasionally,” he told them, smiling truly this time, thankful that the advisor had kept his word _and_ his silence about the events of the night before. Elrond added without batting an eye at his excuse, for it was true, even if not about drink, “I have overindulged, I fear, and am paying the price.”

Laughing, the twins looked about the room, hilarity creeping over their faces to see that the pristine bed was in shambles, the bedclothes lying twisted in its middle, with the pillows atop them. “Would you like for us to help you clean this mess, Ada?” the youngest of the twins asked, while Elladan nodded his agreement to his brother’s suggestion.

Having his sons stand in the room where the secreted knowledge of their father’s misdeeds had taken place was too much for Elrond. Having his sons clean up the mess that their father had made caused the half-Elf’s flesh to crawl, for their scrutiny would only lead to more questions. Therefore, Elrond asked of his progeny, “Perhaps you could help me into the pleasance, my sons. I’ve need for fresh air.”

Elladan slipped his arm under his father’s arm. “You should be more careful, Ada,” he told his father in gentle reprimand. Tightening his grip around Elrond’s waist, Elladan jested with a smile, “Glorfindel and Erestor did not seem to be in as bad a shape as you. Was it some drinking game that you played?”

Elrohir added his own arm to his twin’s around his father’s waist, the support truly unnecessary for Elrond’s throbbing person but the comfort and nearness of his sons a balm to the half-Elf’s aching faer. “If it was a drinking game, you must have taken a sip for every time stone in the wall!” the younger twin teased.

“Or every time you saw a leaf on a tree,” Elladan agreed, laughing with his twin at their father’s curious, effete behavior the night before and his resulting inefficaciousness this morn in seeing to his normal duties. “Glorfindel was in a foul mood when we saw him earlier, but at least he didn’t fall and bruise himself like you have. You should have gone to the healers, or woke one of us to see to you, Ada.”

The twins walked their father from his room, out the veranda doors, and down the stairs to the gardens, where, with their arms still under his, his sons lowered him to the grass, not bothering with the benches sitting nearby. As far back as Elrond could remember, none had sat in the opulently sculptured stone seating in the garden. Celebrian had always sat with her children in the middle of the secluded garden, where there were no trees to block their sight of the firmament above, and nothing but the soft, tended grass under and around them. Even in the winter months, the Lady of Imladris had spread a cover out over the snow to keep her stitching from becoming wet, though she, the twins, Arwen, and Elrond would sit in the blankets of snow, instead, to listen to stories and stare into the beautiful view overhead.

Settling himself in the grass, the Imladrian Lord grunted as his back was twisted, and thus his aching ribs disturbed. _My ribs are not broken, but I should wrap them all the same._

Elrohir dropped gracefully to the ground beside his father, asking, “Would you like for us to fetch you something from the kitchens? Are you hungry, Ada?”

“Or perhaps we can get you something from the apothecary? Some tea or a liniment for your bruises?” Elladan added to his brother’s worried offer.

He almost asked them for something, herbs or tea or food, whatever first came to mind, if only to rid himself of their presence. Now was not a choice time for them to be with their father. Elrond had an agenda today that could do without Elladan and Elrohir’s presence. He was certain that the morning meeting had gone by without him, for his advisors, Erestor especially, did not need their Lord to know his will; however, Elrond had other matters to which he needed to attend, issues that needed resolving and could only be handled by he alone.

“No, my sons. Stay here with your old Ada for a while,” he told them nonetheless, while pretending to be decrepit and feeble as he pulled his legs under him to sit cross-legged on the ground. “I may need your help in getting back up from the grass.”

As intended, the ever-cheerful twins laughed at their Ada, and sitting between his affectionate, loving sons, the Imladrian swore, _I would do whatever it takes to ascertain that my family suffers no more on my account._

He wanted his sons’ attention as he had never wanted it before. Always he had dismissed their worry for him, their doting, and in doing so, had hoped that his children would retain the image of their father as the healer, the leader, and the strong-willed Elf he was supposed to be.

Elrond did not want to be alone right now, nor did he wish to begin his day of hiding the evidence of his deeds, apologizing to those he had wronged, and trying to make right those wrongs doing whatever it took to see that his friendship with Erestor and Glorfindel was restored. Right now, Elrond only wanted to forget for a moment that he had broken his bond to his children’s Naneth, and to pretend that Celebrian was here with them, sitting in the grass.

Never again would he relapse into the wanton activity that he had partaken of these past days. He would not sully his wife’s name by pandering to his needs, nor endanger his family’s happiness for his own.

The sun was bright in the midsummer sky. It must have rained in the early hours of the morning, for the lawn underneath them was wet. The moisture seeped agreeably into the half-Elf’s leggings, while the soft summer breeze blew the grass about, tickling his bare feet.

Elrohir and Elladan knew of sorrow but were too young to let it diminish them. Arwen was younger than the twins, and had taken her Naneth’s leaving much harder than her brothers, for she had no other she-Elf here to comfort her who had been as close to her as her mother, not as the twins had their father, Erestor, Glorfindel, and their other tutors, who had helped to raise them since Celebrian had sailed, and who had been like second fathers in the grieved and often withdrawn Elrond’s stead.

There was much more to consider than his own feelings in this matter, much more to worry over than merely his own culpability, his own pleasure, and the subsequent pain that finding this pleasure had brought him. Moreover, seeing his sons at ease, unknowing and unsuspecting of their father’s disgusting acts, the half-Elf only felt more ashamed that he had capitulated so easily to his lust, when it was to their Naneth that he had pledged his faer.

Elrond twisted vilya on his finger, shook his head, and smiled. _I will not give in to temptation another time, Celebrian._


End file.
